


alone together

by dothraki_shieldmaiden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Domestic Fluff, Idiots in Love, Mild Angst, Multi, Mutual Pining, Quarantine, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 74,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23286595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden
Summary: Like the rest of the world, Dean Winchester’s job sent him home with the supplies necessary to work from home and a vague farewell of “We’ll see you when this all blows over”. Unlike the rest of the world, Dean Winchester is entering into a quarantine with Castiel Novak, his incredibly hot and incredibly uninterested roommate. How is Dean supposed to concentrate on his job while Cas is just a few feet away, being...well, Cas?Castiel Novak was already working from home, so the news of social distancing doesn’t affect him that much. What does send him into a panic is the knowledge that Dean Winchester, his stunning and straight roommate, will also be working from home for the foreseeable future. After spending so long trying to distance himself from Dean, Castiel now has to face a future where Dean is present. All. The. Time.They’ve got food, Internet, and all the toilet paper they need, but neither one of them is prepared for quarantine.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury/Gilda, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester
Comments: 695
Kudos: 1258
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My small contribution to the _Oh my god, they were quarantined_ genre. Please note--This isn't an attempt to make light of any situations or suffering. At the time that this fic was being written, the world was in a very uncertain place. This was my attempt to find a silver lining in all of the misery and uncertainty and stress, and create something that would hopefully make people smile. 
> 
> If you want to come and fuss at me, you can find me [here](https://dothwrites.tumblr.com/). I'm mostly nice, sometimes salty, always weird. 
> 
> With no further ado, please enjoy!

**day zero**

Castiel is halfway through his next article when the door to the apartment opens. It’s not a gentle opening. The thud, as it clangs against the wall, is loud and violent enough to make Castiel wince. He strains his ears beyond the immediate noises and hears the sound of heavy breathing, punctuated by a low grunt of exertion. Completing the symphony is the scrape of cardboard against hardwood. 

Castiel pauses in his writing (his next sentence is gone, never to return,  _ goodbye intriguing metaphor, I barely knew ye _ ) and pokes his head out of his office. At the front door, he sees Dean, his roommate, wrestling with two large boxes. An intimidating array of cords spill from the top of the first box, while a computer tower is visible from the lower box. 

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happened--he can already tell from the array of technology, not to mention the concerned, pinched look at the corners of Dean’s eyes and mouth, but Castiel asks anyway. 

“It’s happened?” 

Dean’s shoulders slump. For just a moment, he loses the cocky tilt to his posture and worry bleeds through. Castiel knows the feeling. Sometimes, when he goes to bed, he aches from the continuous pummeling of doomsdays scenarios from the relentless media. But seeing his own worry reflected through Dean makes the situation finally hit home. 

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “It happened.” 

Quarantine. 

**day one**

To call it quarantine is a little overdramatic, Castiel will admit. Neither he nor Dean are forbidden from leaving the house. Police aren’t patrolling the square beneath their Kansas City apartment to keep them inside. But he’s a conscientious person, concerned about public health, and when dozens of people in white coats tell him that the best thing he can do is stay inside, well, Castiel isn’t going to disagree with them. 

It makes it easier than he already had a home office set up. He works as a freelance writer, selling his op-ed pieces as well as original fiction to the highest bidder. It’s nothing that he’s gotten rich from (not yet anyway), but his paychecks, combined with a tidy inheritance from his not so dearly departed father, keep him in relative comfort. 

It also doesn’t hurt that Dean charges him much less rent than he knows he should owe. 

Day One of quarantine (the phrase social distancing just sends Castiel tailspinning back to elementary and middle school when he was the weird, quiet kid that no one liked) begins for Castiel at about nine o’clock in the morning. Freelancing means that he gets to set his own hours, which means that some days it’s closer to noon before he manages to make his way out of bed. Today, however, he’s awakened by a sound unheard of on a weekday--pots and pans clattering on their kitchen counter. 

Castiel shrugs into an old, tattered t-shirt and a threadbare pair of sweats and makes his way down around the corner from his bedroom and into the kitchen. 

In the kitchen, Dean, clad only in a pair of boxers with little strips of bacon dancing across them and a t-shirt, is cooking breakfast. As Castiel approaches, he can hear Dean humming under his breath, to a song that only he can hear. Caught up in the moment, Dean takes one of their frying pans and, with a deft move of his wrist, flips a pancake. It lands neatly in the skillet, but Castiel’s stomach is left mid-air, still caught mid-flip like the poor pancake. 

Since the first time he laid eyes on him two years ago, Castiel has been helplessly gone on Dean Winchester. At first it was just physical--the man is stunning, with a body that looks like it provided inspiration for classical sculptors, and a face that belongs on magazine covers--but it quickly turned into more than that. Dean, as it turned out, was funny, kind, a bit of a clean freak, sometimes a bit of a dork, the most generous person that Castiel had ever met, and much more brilliant than he gave himself credit for. Not to mention that he could cook, play guitar, and sing. Castiel is fairly certain that somewhere along the way, he displeased some cosmic entity, and this is his punishment. 

Because Dean is also, tragically, heterosexual. 

Castiel, victim of heteronormativity that he is, usually tends to assume that most people he meets are straight (that way also leads to less punches in the face and generally unpleasant evenings), but for Dean, he’d held out the smallest sliver of hope. Something about the way that Dean’s gaze would linger on his face before dropping down to his lips, the little flick of his tongue over his lower lip, the awkward way that Dean postured himself whenever Castiel walked into a room...For six months, Castiel had nursed that little spark of hope. 

And then one Saturday morning, Castiel rolled out of bed with no real agenda or thought other than to make it to the kitchen. His body and brain both screamed for coffee, and, as a bonus, he could start some for Dean too. He rarely got to do nice, roommate things for Dean in the kitchen (his hatred of mornings combined with an almost pathological inability to do something so simple as boil an egg combining into a lethal combination), and he could tell, from the silence of the kitchen, that Dean wasn’t awake yet. No surprise there; his firm had thrown some sort of party for them the night before. 

( _ “You could come too, if you wanted,” Dean said, fumbling with the dish just before he loaded it into the dishwasher. “I mean, it’s not a formal thing. Hell, it’ll just be a few of us from the firm, having a few drinks.”  _

_ “Thanks, but I’ve got a deadline coming up,” Castiel said, thinking of all the potential disasters that could occur if he were to mix Dean, alcohol, his own social awkwardness, and a bar filled with Dean’s friends. “Perhaps another time.” _

_ “Yeah,” Dean said, and Castiel tried to talk himself out of the notion that it was disappointment shining in Dean’s eyes. “If you change your mind, we’ll be at McRory’s pub. Come by anytime.”  _

_ “Sure,” Castiel agreed, even though they both knew that he wasn’t going to change his mind.)  _

Castiel yawned, only to freeze when he heard shuffling coming from the kitchen. A quick glance confirmed that Dean’s door was still shut, which meant-

He rounded the corner to the kitchen. All of his hopes of Dean being the tiniest bit interested vanished in a glimpse of shapely,  _ female _ legs, and a flip of long, dark hair. 

The woman startled when she caught sight of Castiel, her hands coming to her chest (she had on one of Dean’s shirts, Castiel recognized it from Dean’s multiple wearings, it’s one of his favorite shirts and it dwarfed her petite frame, slipping from one shoulder to reveal lovely, tanned skin). “Oh! Hi, sorry.” She smiled at him, a brilliant, megawatt grin that would make anyone fall in love with it, just a little. “I was just looking for the coffee mugs. Thought I would start a pot. You must be the roommate.” Her face wrinkled in concentration. “Cas-teel?”

“You can call me Cas,” Castiel muttered, feeling significantly underdressed for the occasion in his boxers and t-shirt, never mind that when the woman reached up into the cabinet he indicated, the shirt rode up, revealing nothing but a pair of black boyshorts underneath.

Mug procured, the woman turned back to him. “Lisa.” She fumbled around with their coffee maker, unsure of its quirks. Castiel eventually took pity on her and started the machine. “Sorry if we were loud last night.” Her eyes turn hazy and fond, and Castiel can’t--

“It’s fine,” he mumbled. His need for caffeine is gone. All that remained was his desire to escape this conversation, though any possible means. Their third floor living room window looked like an appealing option. 

And then, to put a shit cherry on a shit sundae, Dean chose that moment to wander out of his room, shirtless, with a loose pair of sweats slipping down to reveal one incriminating hipbone. A dark mark sucked into the meat of his shoulder stood out at Castiel like a bullseye. Even the thick lines of Dean’s pentagram tattoo, drawn dark on his chest, seemed to be leering at him. 

At that point, Castiel would have been more than happy to dissolve into the floor, but no. He had to stand there as Dean took in the scene, self-consciously scratching at the back of his neck, but with the satisfied aura of  _ I got laid last night  _ surrounding him. “Cas, Lisa, Lisa, Cas. Cas, what are you doing up? It’s before noon on a Saturday.” To Lisa, confidentially, “Cas thinks that any hour before eleven a.m. is a myth.” 

Lisa laughed, in the way that invited Castiel to be in on the joke instead of making him a part of it. It would have been so much easier to hate her if she were snotty or dismissive, but when she smiled at him, he could actually believe her invitation of, “Do you want to come and get brunch? We were going to go somewhere, you’re more than welcome to--”

“I’m good,” Castiel said, before she could finish that train of thought. Go to brunch? Be subjected to the soppy looks that Dean was beaming her way? Sit there as they started to make their own inside jokes, stories that they would tell later for rehearsal dinners and anniversary parties? Castiel had never been tortured, but he would assume that being the third wheel on a couple’s brunch was outlawed underneath the Geneva Convention. “I just came to get some coffee. I’ve got a deadline and this article won’t write itself.”

Not for the first time, he thanked his job for getting him out of more than one awkward social engagement. When no one understood exactly what you did, it was easy to blame work for everything. Thankfully, the coffee was done, so it was the work of moments for Castiel to grab his mug and retreat to his room. 

Of course, his peace was shattered a few seconds later by a timid knock at the door. “Come in,” Castiel answered, keeping his back to the door as he rifled through his drawers. 

It wasn’t surprising to him to hear Dean’s voice, more hesitant than he’d heard it before. “Hey. I just wanted to come in and make sure...You and I never really had the talk about bringing people over, and I wanted to make sure--”

“Dean, this is your apartment,” Castiel said, ruthlessly suppressing the stab of pain in his chest as he turned to face Dean, still shirtless and gorgeous, in his bedroom door. “You’re a full-grown man; you don’t need to ask my permission. I don’t expect you to be a monk.” 

“Yeah,” Dean said, shuffling in the doorway, still clearly uncomfortable. “It’s just…” He looked at Castiel, an unreadable expression on his face for a moment before it smoothed into the earnestness of Dean’s normal features. Castiel’s heart leapt, for reasons that he didn’t understand, only to dive back down to earth when Dean spoke again. “You’re really cool man--I mean, you’ve got shit taste in music and I don’t think that you even know what most movies are, but you’re funny and you’re quiet and you pay your part of the rent on time every month and you pick up after yourself and you let me cook you weird shit and don’t complain when it’s, well...shit.” Dean scratched at the back of his neck again, a nervous tic that would get him in trouble at any poker game. “Point is, I don’t want to fuck up our whole roommate thing because I was a dick.” 

Of course. Castiel took a deep breath, glad for once at his experience at being Gabriel’s brother, which gave him ample opportunities to practice bottling up every emotion. “Dean, I don’t know how else to tell you. I don’t mind. Lisa seems like a lovely person.” The next words taste like razors in his mouth but he says them anyway. “I’m really glad for you.” 

“Oh. Right.” Something falls in Dean’s face--the anticipation of a fight unrealized perhaps--before he smiles again. “She’s really something.” And then he’d given Castiel a little wave, before heading out the door to the first of what were sure to be many brunches. 

_ Really something  _ Lisa Braeden had stuck around for a little over a year, and as much as Castiel had tried to hate her, he found himself unable to. Unfailingly kind, with a wicked sense of humor, he’d actually found himself enjoying their conversations, a fact which only grew when he discovered that she was a yoga instructor. Dean would watch them talk about the benefits of hot yoga and different position combinations with a bemused look in his eye, holding out his hands in surrender every time that Lisa told him about the core-building possibilities of yoga. But despite his tentative friendship with Lisa, Castiel’s place was made clear--when the lights dimmed, it was Dean and Lisa who were curled up on the couch in front of the television, and Castiel who was left to slink back to his room or office, closing the door on the couple outside. 

And he’d thought about moving--no reason to twist that knife and rub salt into that wound--but every time he found himself unable to make the final push. Dean charged him less rent for a much nicer apartment than he would ever find anywhere else. The apartment was centrally located so that when Castiel did have to visit an office, he didn’t have that far to walk. Dean was willing to cook for him, a fact which reduced Castiel’s ramen consumption by at least half. And every time Castiel thought about leaving, he would be stricken with an image of Dean’s face--confused, hurt--asking  _ Was it something that I did?  _ And then the thought--not living with Dean, not listening to Dean bitch about an annoying coworker, not listening to Dean’s old Victrola on a Saturday afternoon, never tasting Dean’s cooking again, or hearing him brag about his younger brother--the thought of missing those things would hit him and Castiel would decide, without conscious thought  _ No. I’ll stay.  _

Worth it having Lisa become a semi-permanent member of their household. Worth it, for reasons that he never cared to dissect. After all, Dean was just a roommate. Not a friend--Castiel never let them become close enough for that, no matter how much he might want. 

And then, without warning, Lisa was gone, removed from their lives as completely as if someone had taken an eraser to her. Dean, when asked, hadn’t offered up any information. He’d just tucked himself further into the couch, closed his red-rimmed eyes and clutched the whiskey bottle closer to him. “It’s over,” was all he would say, and Castiel had just sat there and watched him demolish the whiskey, wanting to reach out and bridge the gap between them but woefully ignorant of how to do so. 

(Later, when Dean had been sloppy drunk and loose with it, he’d turned to Castiel. “You’re...you’re awesome,” he’d said, with all the conviction of the plastered. When Castiel had tried to demure, tried to suggest that perhaps it was time for Dean to go to bed, Dean shook his head, an uncommon petulant expression settling on his face. “I mean it,” he slurred, grabbing at Castiel’s arm. “You’re...just awesome.” 

He’d stared at Castiel for a moment, like the secrets to the universe were written on Castiel’s face and all he had to do was just decode them. When Dean started to lean in, Castiel sprang back, fear and potential clutching at his throat. “Bed,” he said, hands settling on the safe parts of Dean--his shoulders, his biceps. “You need to go to bed, you’ll feel better…”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed after a long moment, and hadn’t said anything else as Castiel had helped him to his room. He’d helped Dean into bed, such as it was--watched while Dean collapsed backwards onto his mattress and rolled the other man onto his side when it became evident that Dean was incapable of helping himself. After a long moment, he’d bent over Dean’s sleeping form, gently working Dean’s shoes off his feet.

“Cas,” he thought he’d heard Dean say, the nickname slurred and so painfully fond that it twisted his chest. “Cas, I want---” 

But it was just his imagination, and the next day, when Dean had woken up with a splitting headache and still no girlfriend, they never mentioned it. That incident lives in the corner with all the rest of them, the things that Castiel chooses to forget.)

Two years of living together, two years of Castiel keeping him and Dean carefully at the threshold of  _ This is my roommate Cas _ , never anything more because Castiel can barely stand the closeness that they enjoy now without wanting  _ more.  _ If they were to become closer? No way that Castiel would be able to restrain himself. Two years of pining, of maintaining self-control so intense that Jedi masters would envy it (thanks to Dean for providing him with  _ that  _ analogy) and it’s about to be blown to shit. 

“Oh hey Cas!” Dean speaks with exclamation marks in the morning. If he weren’t so endearing, Castiel might brain him with a skillet. 

“You’re making breakfast,” Castiel says, unnecessarily. He could smell it from his room. 

“Yup. Don’t expect this treatment all the time, but I thought I’d start off our quarantine right. Sit.” 

Bemused, Castiel takes his place at the island, sliding onto one of the stools. In short order, a mug of coffee, pancakes, eggs, and bacon appear in front of him. Syrup and butter are soon to follow, before Dean takes his place next to him. 

“Can you work from home all the time?” Castiel asks, before he takes an enormous gulp of coffee to cover up the sudden flush which appears on his face. 

Dean laughs and ducks his head down, the way he does whenever anyone tries to praise him. “Like I said, don’t expect this all the time. You’ll get spoiled.” 

Castiel grunts, too focused on the fact that there’s  _ food  _ and lots of it, to respond properly. 

“So what’s your agenda today?” 

Castiel swallows his mouthful of pancakes, the butter salty on his tongue. Without thinking, he swipes his tongue at the corner of his mouth to catch a stray bit of syrup. “Writing,” he says, shrugging. “Same as it is every day. Though I don’t know if I’m going to get any editor to pick up the op-ed that I wrote. Making a case for the removal of parking meters downtown just seems...banal, in light of the current situation.” 

Castiel wrinkles his nose, his appetite suddenly vanished. It’s not that there’s a lack of news, rather that there’s a glut of it. But he’s never going to be able to get the scoop on any medical story, not with major news networks falling over themselves and each other to get the first scoop (not to mention that there’s something about the reporters lurking outside hospitals and briefing rooms that just seems ghoulish to Castiel). The problem is that there’s not many stories he can pursue while stuck inside an apartment. Despite Dean and Gabriel’s teasing, he does spend a good portion of his days outside, tracking down leads and interviews. However, in light of the quarantine, those possibilities have ended, leaving him with no articles to submit and no way to earn a paycheck for the foreseeable future. 

“I’m sure you could still find a way to make it relevant.” Dean shoves a massive bite of pancakes into his mouth. Instead of being disgusted, Castiel finds himself oddly charmed. He even doesn’t mind the few flecks of syrup that land on his hand as Dean points at him. 

“Here’s something for you--Jess was complaining the other day that she got a ticket for one of those things. Worked a double shift, her mask literally cut a bruise into the side of her face and she came out and there’s a ticket on her car because the meter had ticked over while she was at work. Cop told her to appeal it online.” Dean rolls his eyes before he perks up. “Or you could write a story about quarantine. Tell how it’s so stressful to be cooped up inside, slowly going mad, nothing but your charming, sexy roommate to distract you…”

Dean trails off. The waggle of his eyebrows and the smirk on his face tell Castiel that he’s making a joke, but the truth of it hits a little too close to home for Castiel’s liking. 

“I’m sure that inspiration will strike.” 

Castiel pushes away, his food finished and his stomach churning over its unaccustomed hearty breakfast. If this is just Day One, how is he expected to survive a forecasted four weeks? 

After he rinses his dishes and puts them into the dishwasher, Castiel turns around. While Dean is performing a valiant attempt to look casual, there’s something hurt about the curve of his shoulders. Castiel has a sinking suspicion that his snappishness is the cause. 

“It wasn’t a bad idea, what you said about Jess. It’s an interesting angle and I’m sure not a lot of people have thought about it.” It’s a peace offering, and one that Dean quickly accepts.

“Should I tell her to expect a call?” 

“Let me finish planning and see what editors are looking for then, and then yes, perhaps.” While he’s met Jess before, she’s still Dean’s brother’s girlfriend, which creates several layers of removal. “In the meantime, I’ll see if anyone is interested in the increasingly disjointed ramblings of a quarantined writer.” 

Dean grins at him, prior good humor restored. His smile only widens when Castiel murmurs a quick “Thank you for breakfast,” before he disappears into his corner of the apartment. 

Once Castiel is in the four comfortable walls of his small office, he collapses into his chair. How is he meant to do this for four weeks? Previously, it had only been the separation which he was strict to unofficially enforce between him and Dean that was keeping him sane. Now that’s gone--he and Dean are going to be rubbing elbows every day, except for when they’re in their various work spaces. How is he meant to maintain the falsehood that Dean is just a roommate, that he wouldn’t seize the moon for him, if Dean were only to ask? 

After a moment’s despair, Castiel sits up and takes a deep breath.  _ Tell how it’s so stressful to be cooped up inside, slowly going mad, with nothing but your charming, sexy roommate to distract you.. _ .There’s an idea in Dean’s words, one that Castiel didn’t recognize at the time. Obviously, he can’t tell the truth of his situation, but maybe if he just tweaked a few things around, made a few adjustments... 

Castiel rolls his shoulders before he boots up his laptop and gets to work. 

-_-_-_-_-_-

Dean’s smile slips the second that Castiel disappears into his office. The sound of the door closing acts as an all-too familiar reminder about exactly why this whole quarantine is fucked. 

Rewind two years--Sam, eager to be on his own (and probably sick and tired of bringing Jess over and enduring Dean’s relentless teasing the next morning), told Dean that he was moving out. “It’s just time,” Sam said, reverting back to the nervous teenager that Dean practically raised. “Jess and I are making enough now that we can afford a place of our own, and you don’t need me to rent this place. You make way more than I do.” 

“Yeah,” Dean said, the word sticking thick in his throat. Every word coming out of Sam’s mouth made perfect sense, but there was something about hearing them in that particular order that struck Dean through the heart. “Yeah, you’re right.” 

And so Sam had moved out (to the other side of the city, less than twenty minutes away, as he continuously reminded Dean), leaving Dean with a giant, downtown apartment to himself. And at first, he wasn’t going to lie, it had been nice. Naked cooking, naked couch-sitting, jerking off in every room--the possibilities were endless. 

The novelty wore off within the week (naked cooking  _ hurt _ when grease popped, the couch was scratchy on his bare ass and balls, and jerking off on the dining room table eventually just felt skeevy instead of indulgent). Then, it was just Dean floating around an empty apartment, turning on the TV just to hear the sound of another human voice. For his entire life, he’d lived with someone else and now...Dean did not take to solitude well. 

“Get a roommate,” Charlie said over lunch, licking ranch dressing off of her fingers. “Not like you need the money, but it’ll be another person there at least. Plus, you could use the extra money to spruce up your outfit.” (Dean’s last outfit at LARPing had not gone over well and Charlie was an expert at holding a grudge.)

And the more Dean thought about it, the better the idea sounded, until he was holding roommate interviews. The first few were duds--one came in reeking of weed, the other said that he felt that clothing was an unnecessary restriction on him, while the other commented that he would like the office to hold his sizable collection of tarantulas. Dean had been close to despair when Castiel Novak walked in and then--

Even if Dean were to ignore the messy bedhead and the bright blue eyes, as well as the way that the guy filled out his shirt and his pants, and that rough, fucked out voice--ignoring all of Castiel’s many physical attributes, he was still far and away the best candidate. Reliable source of income, could string sentences together in a logical and interesting manner, and the whole way that he presented himself said that he probably would not grow colonies of mold in his bedroom. 

Added to all of that was the gut feeling that Dean got whenever he looked at the guy. Just a stirring, a recognition.  _ Hello. I think that I’ve been waiting for you.  _

On paper, Cas was the perfect roommate. Fairly neat (though he had a habit of leaving shit just lying around on the floor, which was infuriating), quiet, never stole Dean’s food, and always paid his half of rent and utilities on time. In practice...The second week they’d been living together, Dean had accidentally caught him coming out of the bathroom and headed back towards his room with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. 

_ Skin _ was all that Dean’s mind could helpfully provide, because there was--miles and miles of tanned skin, flushed and glistening from the shower, dark nipples peaked from the sudden cold. And then, those legs, thighs thick and muscled, calves taut. Cas glanced at him, water flying from his hastily dried hair. As Dean watched, a fat drop landed on Cas’ chest. It took a superhuman effort not to watch its descent down Cas’ chest, to his stomach, and to the towel wrapped sinfully low on hips sharp enough to cut glass. 

He wasn’t blind; he knew that Cas was an attractive guy. But getting that glimpse of Cas...Dean mumbled his way through a conversation that he couldn’t remember ten minutes later and fled back to his room, terrified that Cas would see the incriminating bulge at the crotch of his jeans. Yeah, he’d known that Cas was attractive, but what he hadn’t realized was that Cas was walking sex on legs. 

That was about the time that Dean realized that he was absolutely fucked, as far as this roommate thing went. 

And it’s not like Dean is against dating guys or screwing guys; there are quite a few men in the greater Kansas City area who would write rave reviews. But even he knows that it’s different screwing around with someone who goes back to their own place at the end and screwing around with someone who sleeps less than twenty feet from you. Cas really is a great roommate, not to mention an all-around good person, and Dean would hate to lose him just because he couldn’t keep his dick in check. 

Because it goes wrong. Every time he tries to build a relationship, every time he tries to let someone in past all the bullshit so that they can see the real Dean Winchester, it goes tits up, and then he’s left behind as the realization sinks in:  _ He’s never going to be good enough for anyone _ . 

Case study: Lisa Braeden. 

Lisa had been his last effort to really make it work, really try to bury all of his shit and focus on starting to build a life. It began as a fling, a way to try and distract himself from the fact that he was slowly but surely falling in love with his roommate, but then coalesced into something larger. Dean didn’t mind. Lisa was perfect--funny, sexy, smart, with a patient streak that ran a mile long. It was easy to fall in love with her, easy to start dreaming about a life together. 

And then, like always, it fell apart, and Dean was left alone, snuggling up to a half-empty bottle of whiskey as his only consolation. That, and Cas’ presence, supportive through the silence. He’d put Dean to bed, strong hands supporting him all the way to his room. 

And Dean had thought...Cas’ face so close to his and there had been times before, when he thought that Cas was about to make a move, but this was different. Cas’ face was hazy in his vision, but it was still the sharpest thing in the room; all of his senses narrowed to his look, his scent, the lingering heat where Cas’ hands had touched him. Cas leaned in close, his head tilted to the side, lips parting to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of his tongue. Dean’s heart pounded in his chest--it was happening, it was finally happening--

And then Cas pulled back, away from him. It was like having a bucket of cold water dumped on top of him. Dean collapsed back into bed. All he could think of to say was “Cas,” because his brain couldn’t wrap around the idea of  _ Cas, I want you to crawl into bed with me. I want to fall asleep next to you and wake up next to you and cook you breakfast and laugh with you, because you’re one of the most interesting people that I’ve ever met-- _

In the morning, Dean woke up, hungover and single. He and Cas never brought that night up again, and Dean resigned himself to living with the world’s most perfect man and never doing anything about it. 

And just because no one tortures Dean Winchester like Dean Winchester, he’s tried his best to weasel his way into Cas’ life. He invites Cas out for drinks, to dinner, hell, he even invited him to a LARPing weekend once. Cas turns every invitation down with a gracious politeness, but even that doesn’t stop Dean from asking. 

And Dean was fine with the status quo. Well, not fine, but the closest thing he can get to fine while being really not fucking ok with it. He can continue to pine after his roommate, who shows not the slightest bit of interest in him, and die sad, fat, and alone. 

(The fat thing probably won’t happen; don’t tell Sam but Dean actually does work out to maintain some kind of figure, but the sad and alone, definitely.)

The quarantine threatens to upset their whole status quo. How is he supposed to concentrate on his job, which does require a fair bit of mental acuity, when Cas is less than fifty feet away, being...Cas? 

Dean sighs and finishes cleaning up from breakfast. It had been a spur of the moment decision, a silly way to welcome in the new reality. It had also been a way for him to indulge in his pathetic domestic fantasies and, just for a moment, create a world where he and Cas were people who had breakfast together. And for a few minutes, Dean could sink into the fantasy, let himself believe that this was really his life. 

And now, like always, he’s left cleaning up the pieces until everything looks normal. 

After the dishes are done, he starts the long procedure of setting up a temporary home office. Cas already laid claim to the apartment’s actual office, which made sense at the time, him doing the majority of his work from home. But now Dean also is at home for the foreseeable future. There’s no question of him doubling up with Cas--the office is tiny enough as is, and Dean’s seen how irritable Cas can get when someone interrupts his creative flow. As a compromise, Cas had suggested that Dean set up on their dining table. It’s not ideal, but it at least gives them a space of their own. 

Dean spends the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon setting up the complicated equipment that will allow him to plan new projects and virtually stress test the designs for his existing blueprints. It’s a fiddly process. By the end of it, Dean is in a foul mood, caused no doubt by him bashing the top of his head into the table as he hooks up various cords. 

He’s only snapped out of his current nastiness by the seemingly magical appearance of a beer. He looks up and there’s Cas, looking like a wet dream, holding out a beer to him. 

“It’s only three in the afternoon,” Dean says. He might flirt with the idea of becoming a functional alcoholic, but there’s a difference between drinking a little too much and drinking during work hours. 

Cas shrugs, a wry smile on his face. “I won’t tell if you won’t. Who’s here to know? Besides, you looked like you could use it.” 

“Yeah, all right. Twist my arm why don’t you.” 

Dean takes the bottle from Cas. When their fingers brush, he doesn’t flinch at the jolt of electricity that runs through him, but that’s only from experience. 

How the hell is he supposed to survive a four week quarantine with this man? 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*


	2. one more troubled soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four days in, and Dean's feeling confident. He can kick this quarantine in the ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your interest and kind words. Now I just have to hope that I live up to them. Enjoy and, as always, wash your hands you filthy animals.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**day four**

Four days in and Dean’s feeling confident. He can kick this quarantine right in the ass. 

He wakes up every morning at eight, makes his morning coffee, and takes a shower. Every morning, he puts himself into real clothes--maybe not the business casual of the office, but it’s at least a different pair of jeans and shirt, which is more than some of his coworkers are managing. He would be willing to bet money that Charlie Bradbury has not been out of her pajamas in a business week. He makes breakfast, though it’s not always the sumptuous banquet that it was the first day of quarantine. Most days, he makes a bowl of cereal while he answers the bevvy of texts sent his way. 

In this, as in all things, Sam comes first. Dean knows that he’s probably irritating his brother with the amount of texts that he sends, but when it comes to Sam, worry lives constantly in the back of his throat and around the edges of his heart. It only gets worse when he adds Jess into the mix. He’s seen the pictures Sam’s sent him, of Jessica falling asleep, spoon in hand, at the dining room table over a dinner eaten at one a.m. Sam puts a good spin on it, usually has some snappy comment to make, but the fact remains that Jess is on the frontlines and there’s nothing that either Sam or Dean can do to protect her. All Dean can do is send an endless flurry of texts, asking if they have enough toilet paper, recommending that they lay off tacos and burritos in order to conserve resources. There’s nothing that Dean would love more than to jump into the Impala and make the 20 minute drive to Sam’s house, but he knows that Jess would most likely skin him alive if she ever caught wind of his actions, so he bites back his concern and keeps his ass at home. 

Following his daily missive from Sam are texts from Bobby and Ellen  **_(still alive ya idjit leave us alone)_ ** and a text from Jo, stuck at home with Bobby and Ellen  **_(save me, you’re my only hope obi-wan!!!)_ ** . He also gets missives from Benny  **_(delivered to someone wearing nipple pasties what the actual fuck)_ ** , as well as his other friends scattered about the city and country. He wants, with a fierce desire, to be able to package them all up and put them under his roof, where he can keep an eye on all of them, but he knows that’s just a fantasy. 

Also, Cas would probably get pissed at him if he were to bring in ten other bodies. He’s a pretty chill guy, but no one is  _ that  _ chill. 

After his required social time (Dean likes to think of it as the time he would spend flitting from office to office and lingering around the shitty coffee maker in the work room), it’s time for him to settle down and get to work. Mechanical engineering isn’t traditionally performed outside of a traditional office--the software requirements are too much for a regular computer, not to mention the fact that there are meetings to attend, sites to inspect, and clients to woo. However, now that meetings and non-essential travel have been banned (breaking ground on new job sites is a pipedream), the majority of his work can be performed from home. Mostly, he’s going to be working on new designs for potential projects, drawing up sketches and models and putting them through various stress tests. It’s all he can do, at least until the world calms back down. 

Dean picks up his sketchpad and a pencil. He lets his hand run free while his mind takes on the particular haziness of sketching. Like this, he’s free to let his thoughts twist and turn down whatever road they want to take. Today, those roads are dark--he worries about the future of his firm, if the madness doesn’t quickly subside. He worries about Sam, currently stuck at home as all the municipal buildings, including the courts, are shut down. He spends an extra dollop of worry for Jess, stuck working twelve and thirteen hour shifts at the hospital. He worries about Bobby and Ellen, stuck in Sioux Falls, worries about the rest of his friends--how they’re coping, if any of them are going to lose their jobs. As always, eventually, he comes to Cas. 

Cas has been shutting himself away in his office for hours on end. He’s a ghost around the apartment, darting out at mealtimes to heat up a quick meal before returning to his office. When Dean talks to him, Cas will answer, but with a furtive, preoccupied air, like he left half of his brain in his office. Cas ends the conversations quickly, looking almost relieved as he retreats to the safety of his side of the apartment. 

If he didn’t know any better, he would think that Cas is avoiding him. 

And because Dean never could take a fucking hint, he keeps on trying. He talks louder and faster, trying to fill Cas’ side of the conversation as well as his own. He knows that it’s too much, his voice too bright and brittle, even as it’s coming out of his mouth, but he can’t stop. He pushes too much--invites Cas to come watch shows with him, invites him to play games, and winces when he sees the edge of something in Cas’ eyes. It’s not quite panic, but it’s close, and it makes Dean feel like an asshole, even as he keeps on pushing. 

Dean perks up when he hears Cas’ door creak open. Cas moves damn near silently, but if Dean strains his ears, he can hear the soft pad of bare feet against the hardwood floor. It’s when Cas is standing at the fridge, ducking down to look at one of the lower shelves, that Dean makes his move. 

“Hey Cas. Got any plans for tonight?” 

It’s a dumbass question to ask while they’re both quarantined, and Dean deserves the sour look that Cas shoots towards him. 

“You know that I don’t. I assume from your question that you have some sort of idea?” 

Cas’ voice is a mixture between cautious and snippy. The caution Dean doesn’t care for, but the snippiness...Well that’s pure Cas. 

“Want to help me make dinner? It’s steak.” 

Cas closes the door to the refrigerator as he turns to look at Dean. “ _ You _ want  _ me _ to help you make dinner.” Each word is given careful consideration and weight, to demonstrate the level of Cas’ disbelief. “I assume that this is an indication that we truly are in the end days.” 

Dean shrugs, ignoring the heat blooming just underneath the collar of his shirt. “It was just thought. If you don’t want to, that’s fine.” 

“Yes. That’d be...that’d be good.” The answer comes quicker than Dean expects, brings his eyes to Cas’ face. There’s honest happiness there, which is quickly covered up by his snarky, “I guess you’d better get your soul right for the afterlife.” 

“You know, those jokes are in pretty poor taste.” 

“I’ve been told that about my sense of humor in general.” Cas fishes through the fridge and comes up with a long-forgotten bottle of Gatorade. “I just need to come to a good stopping place and then we can start. About an hour, give or take?” 

“Sure.” Dean’s so giddy at the prospect of spending time with Cas that he would agree to almost anything. Probably better that Cas doesn’t figure that out. 

His smile lasts as Cas turns to go back to his office, all the way back to his makeshift office at the dining room table. As he settles down, his phone lights up with a message. Dean thumbs it open, squinting when he sees the giant block of text that Charlie’s sent him in a screenshot. 

**_something to brighten up your quarantine_ ** is the message that she’s sent him, along with a smiley face emoji. Dean rolls his eyes, but it’s a fond gesture. He presses on the screenshot and squints. After he reads half the page, Dean’s heart sinks. He knows exactly why Charlie sent him this thread. 

_ So I just wanted to start this blog to keep track of the days that we’re in quarantine, or social distancing, or self-isolation, or whatever you want to call it. I figure that one day I can show this to my grandkids. Or who knows, future historians will thank me for chronicling how I ate shredded cheese out of the bag and binged all of Parks and Rec in a day and a half. I always thought that if the apocalypse were to happen, then I would at least have a cool cloak. But nope, I’m just sitting here in my robe, waiting for some kind of news.  _

Dean smiles at that. His own robe hangs from the back of his door, a siren temptation that he manages to ignore every morning. He can definitely sympathize with this guy though. 

_ The problem with quarantine is that you can’t leave. Which yeah, you think that’s obvious, but it’s awful when you’re stuck inside a house with someone else.  _

_ Someone that you’re in love with.  _

_ Someone who doesn’t feel the same about you.  _

Oh yeah. Dean can definitely sympathize. 

Shame and anger curl in his stomach and he feels the immediate gut-punch of irritation towards Charlie. It was a dick move for her to send him something like this. Other than Sam (and by extension Jess), and Benny, Charlie is the only one who knows about his Cas problem, and Dean had always, apparently stupidly, assumed that information would never be used against him. 

It’s not the first thread or blog that he’s seen that has this lament. Apparently there’s thousands of people wandering around in love with their roommates and cultivating a shitload of sexual tension that was just waiting for a global pandemic to explode. Instead of comforting Dean, it just pisses him off. He wants his angst to be his and his alone, not see it reflected to him on every social media hub. 

_ The problem is that we’re two guys. I’m out and I never really tried to hide that fact, but my roommate is the straightest guy to ever...I don’t have a good analogy but you get the picture. He’s a pretty enlightened guy, has other LGBTQ+ friends, but he’s never even hinted that he’s anything but purely heterosexual. I don’t want to make a move and have our dynamic change. I can’t handle that. It’s worth it to me if it means that I can keep on being his friend.  _

Dean’s never made a big deal about his bisexuality, but he’s never tried to hide it either, especially around Cas. The number of  _ goes both ways  _ jokes alone could topple small cities. To each of these jokes he’s gotten nothing, nothing, and more nothing. No, that’s a lie. Once, he got a squinty little look which, judging from past experiences, either means that Cas is confused or that Cas is ready to put his fist through something. Could go either way (much like Dean himself, add another one to the list, haha!). 

As for Cas...After all the time that Dean’s spent thinking about Cas’ sexual orientation (much more time than he would readily admit), he has yet to come to a solid conclusion. He’s never seen Cas bring anyone home and there’s never any incriminating smells or stains when he comes home. Cas doesn’t act like someone who’s getting laid on the regular and he doesn’t act like someone who wants to be getting laid on the regular. At best, Dean figures that Cas is somewhere on the ace scale. Which is great. No, he respects Cas’ sexuality, and it’s really fine that Cas will never be the slightest bit interested in him (he’ll tell himself this for as long as he needs to in order to get the message across to his stupid brain because he’s not going to be one of those assholes who invalidates someone else just because they want to get their dick wet). 

Shaking his head to clear away the sudden little bout of irritation, Dean reads the last little bit of the post. 

_ Also, it’s technically his house and it would really suck getting kicked out right as our town is about to go into full on lockdown.  _

The blog post ends, leaving Dean feeling oddly wrong-footed. He wants to know more, while wishing that he’d never read the damn thing to start with. At the same time, he tries to ignore the hopeful little squirm in his belly (if it works out for this asshole, maybe it can work out for him, no reason to think that it couldn’t, right?), and is furious when he can’t. Fuck this dude, writing this stupid damn blog post, fuck the apparent thousands of people who have subscribed to his blog, and fuck Charlie for sending him this in the first place. 

**_screw you very much for that,_ ** he texts back to her.  **_this shit sucks bad enough, don’t need hearing about it from some other sad sap too_ **

Charlie texts back almost immediately, meaning that she was waiting for him.  **_thought maybe you’d appreciate a little through the looking glass experience. who knows? subscribe and maybe you two can commiserate together_ **

Dean smiles, despite himself.  **_unfuckinglikely. judging from experience our patheticness would just cancel each other out and cause a black hole of pining. forget corona, this is what killed the world_ **

Charlie sends him a series of thinking face emojis.  **_maybe you could use this time to your benefit? not like cas can run away from you rn_ **

**_yeah that’s what i want. can you imagine answering that question? “how’d you two get together?” “well it started out as a hostage situation…” leave it alone. it’s bad enough to deal with, let alone read about it._ **

**_who knows?_ ** Charlie texts back, still relentlessly optimistic.  **_maybe good old emmanuel will get off his ass and do something. then you can compare notes!_ **

**_emmanuel?_ **

**_yeah that’s the name that he puts on the blog_ **

“Weird fucking fake name,” Dean murmurs. He probably shouldn’t judge. His roommate’s name is Castiel, honestly given to him by his weird as fuck parents. Charlie’s girlfriend’s name is Gilda, which is also a weird as fuck name, when you consider it.

His phone buzzes again.  **_so you want me to keep on sending you updates?_ **

The last thing he needs is to follow the story of someone who’s just as much of a sad sack as he is. He needs to concentrate on his work, which has become exponentially more difficult, and how to make it through quarantine without accidentally dropping to one knee and proposing to Cas. One more distraction might be the thing that sends this fragile Jenga tower toppling to the ground. 

Dean rolls his eyes. He’s never been good at making decisions in his own self-interest. 

**_sure why the hell not_ **

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


When Castiel comes out of his room, Dean is already at the kitchen island. He’s poking through something on his phone. When he hears Castiel’s footsteps, he looks up with a strangely guilty look, like Castiel caught him doing something obscene. The swift disappearance of his phone does nothing to take away from his suspicious demeanor, but then he smiles, and Castiel’s mind goes offline. By the time it boots back up, Dean’s speaking to him. The look of eager anticipation on Dean’s face erases any oddness. 

“You ready?” 

“As I’ll ever be.” 

It’s not that Castiel can’t cook. He can. He knows his way around a microwave, range, and oven well enough that he won’t starve anytime soon. But Dean...Dean understands cooking intuitively, in a way that celebrity chefs try and fail to teach. When Dean cooks, he works from gut instinct and not recipes. A quick sniff or taste test is enough of a diagnostic for him. When Castiel cooks it’s out of necessity, a caveman roasting his kill for nourishment. When Dean cooks, it’s art. 

Not that Castiel spends a lot of time waxing poetic about Dean’s various skills. 

“It’s easy,” Dean tells him, which is what Gabriel has told him a thousand times before ( _ honestly Cassie, it’s just following a set of directions) _ . Castiel has never seen proof that following a set of directions is easy, but then again, Castiel was never much good as following rules. 

“So you say.” 

“No, seriously. Look, I’ll help.” Dean’s self-assured grin slips for a second, into something more honest and vulnerable. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I just thought...I thought that it would be something fun for the both of us, you know? Learning a new hobby, doing something different.” 

And Castiel feels like a grade-A dick for putting that look on Dean’s face. All Dean wants to do is find interesting ways to pass the time, and because he’s Dean he’s chosen a pastime that will benefit Castiel as well. It’s classic Dean--selfless and generous to a fault, while Castiel is here, selfishly and peevishly giving him a hard time. 

“It’s a good idea. It’s a great idea. I’m just being an asshole.” Castiel forces a self-conscious laugh. “It’s something that I’m not good at, which makes me cranky.” 

“You’ve just never been shown by a master is all.” Dean twirls a spatula through his fingers, which is a gesture that Castiel should not find nearly as arousing as he does. “All right, enough stalling. Get your ass over here.” 

Castiel ignores the flush of heat that rockets through his body at those words (why, why, why can’t they be said in another context altogether?) and tentatively joins Dean at their kitchen island. Dean, ever the Boy Scout, has already laid out everything they need. At least, that’s what Castiel presumes all the spices, potatoes, beans, and steak are doing on their counter. 

“Wash your hands you animal,” Dean scolds as Castiel unthinkingly reaches for one of the several potatoes on the counter. “Whole damn world is going up in flames and here you are, going to put your germy hands all over our dinner.” 

“It’s not like I’ve been out at the hospital licking my hands,” Castiel points out, because really, Dean can be a little over-dramatic sometimes. “I’ve just been in my office.” 

“Probably snotting all over yourself,” Dean agrees, so cheerfully that Castiel can’t do anything but follow his gentle prompting. “First thing you’re going to do is peel the potatoes. Make sure that the skins go into the trash instead of the disposal; too much of that shit in there gums it up.” 

“I know how to peel potatoes,” Castiel tells Dean, somewhat peevishly, as he proceeds to almost take the skin of his knuckles off. Dean, being Dean, muffles a snort, but doesn’t say anything about it. 

Despite Castiel’s admittedly bad attitude and Dean’s relentless cheerfulness, within thirty minutes the potatoes are frying away in the skillet. The scents of paprika, onion, and garlic start to waft through the kitchen. If anyone were to ask Castiel, he would say that he’s enjoying himself. “Now the steak,” Dean says, directing Castiel’s attention towards the large, but solo piece of meat on the cutting board. 

“Forgive me if I’m wrong,” Castiel says, as he rubs the spices onto the meat according to Dean’s exact instructions, “but this is a single steak. There are two of us,” he continues, when Dean just nods at him, serene as a zen master. 

“Steak bites tonight. Baby steps. If you do a good job at this, maybe one day you’ll graduate to a grill.” 

Castiel takes the large knife, set aside specially for his purposes, and wonders at what point judges consider insanity a proper defense. He could make a cause for it: Dean is simultaneously the world’s most perfect and most annoying man. Anyone would be driven insane by those biceps lurking just out of their reach, and the delicate constellation of freckles creeping over the collar of Dean’s shirt. 

Castiel carefully tosses the bite-sized pieces of steak ( _ it’s a sacrifice that I’m willing to make,  _ Dean had said as he watched the knife cut through the thick slab of meat) into the garlic butter sizzling in the skillet. He takes the tongs and moves the steak around, smiling as the meat browns. 

“Here. Like this.” 

Castiel’s mind short-circuits as Dean comes up behind him. Instead of politely asking him to move, or even doing the frat-boy move of hip-checking him out of the way, Dean chooses to stand right behind him, close enough that his chest brushes up against Castiel’s back. Arms come around to enclose Castiel. To lay the final blow, Dean’s hands, sturdy and strong, settle over Castiel’s. 

Castiel’s heart jumps up to take permanent residence in his throat, while all the blood in his body makes a swift trip downstairs. The irony becomes that, if it weren’t for Dean at his back, he would probably collapse. He swallows and tries to force the quaver out of his voice as he asks, “Problem?” 

“You can’t just poke at it,” Dean tells him, voice smooth and easy, and oh fuck, Castiel can feel it rumbling against his back. Shit, this is more than he ever signed on for. Dean’s flannel, warm and soft against his wrists, the scent of Dean’s soap, sharp and spicy around him, and then Dean’s fingers, sliding over the back of his hands to his fingers, gently nudging them into place as he guides Castiel into picking up the skillet with one hand and the tongs with the other. “Like this, so that the butter soaks into the meat.” 

Castiel manages some garbled noise that must sound like agreement. He can  _ feel _ the nod that travels through Dean’s body, Dean’s chin and chest bumping up against him. He’s amazed that Dean can’t feel the tension literally vibrating through his body. For Castiel’s part, it takes a superhuman effort to not rock back against Dean, slot his ass right up against Dean’s crotch and just--

“What?” Castiel asks, only now aware that Dean’s been talking to him this whole time. 

“I said that you need to be careful.” Dean sounds a little put-out that Castiel wasn’t listening, but how is Castiel supposed to pay attention when he has the glorious feel of Dean’s hands on him? “You like your steak medium and if you leave it much longer on the heat, you’re going to lose that.” 

Castiel looks down and sure enough, the pink center of the steak is rapidly disappearing. 

“Go ahead and plate them.” From anyone else, the guidance would sound like a suggestion. From Dean, it’s a sinful command. His rough voice caresses over the vowels and syllables, turning Castiel’s knees weak, and even though his hands aren’t manipulating him anymore, Dean still doesn’t move. He doesn’t withdraw, not even after Castiel puts the last of the steak onto the plates, not even when he turns off the dial on the stove. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, when he can’t take it anymore, when his only options are either retreat or surrender to the pulsing  _ need  _ that pumps through his blood. “Dean, I need to put this in the sink.” 

Dean steps away from him, so quickly and suddenly that it’s like being dumped into a pool of icy water. Castiel’s knees almost buckle with the shock, but he manages to catch himself in time. He doesn’t know what Dean sees, but Castiel knows what he feels--a wobbly mess, fragile as a dying leaf, ready to be blown away by any passing whim. 

The rattle of silverware shakes him out of his thoughts. Before sitting down at the table, Dean spears a small piece of steak and pops it into his mouth. “Man Cas,” he says, settling down at the island. “This ain’t half bad. Give it a little more time and we’ll make a chef out of you yet.” 

Castiel forces a smile. His skin still tingles from the memory of Dean’s touch. If he breathes deep enough then he can still recall the scent of Dean’s soap. What would it be like, he wonders, to be able to breathe that scent every day? To roll over and find it on the sheets and pillows? 

“You think?” Castiel settles back on the stool next to Dean. He chews a slow bite, considering. “It really is, isn’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, something incomprehensible flashing behind his eyes, just for a moment. “Yeah, it’s pretty much perfect.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	3. family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All right, quarantine fucking _sucks_.
> 
> Dean is _bored_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't supposed to get quite so angsty, but what can I say? Dean got caught up in his feelings.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**day seven**

All right, quarantine fucking _sucks_. 

Dean is _bored._ He’s not the kind of bored where he just needs to switch to a different task for thirty minutes to clear his mind. He’s the kind of bored where, when he moves from one chair at the table to another chair, in order to switch his perspective on the room, he considers it an accomplishment. He’s the kind of bored where he compares the views from opposite ends of the couch and seriously weighs the pros and cons of each. 

(Right side of the couch: firmer cushion but the back cushion is squashed and wonky. Left side of the couch: softer cushion but the arm is set up perfectly for napping. Middle of the couch: sinks the sittee between both right and left cushions. Nowhere to hold drinks. Worst spot on the couch.)

He’s the kind of bored that calls Sam two and three times a day, just to hear another human voice. Sam, it must be said, is weathering quarantine exceptionally well. Maybe it’s just Dean’s own crappy outlook on life, but he can’t help but hear a little touch of condensation when Sam tells Dean he’s already knocked four books off his reading list. There's definitely a hint of smugness when he tells Dean that he’s polished all the furniture and washed all the linens, including the curtains. Sam also tells Dean, with no real irony, that he’s experimenting with crochet. 

Dean, whose sketches look more like stick figures, and who gave up on his one new hobby after two tries, can’t really relate. 

Cooking with Cas (there’s potential there for a TV show if this quarantine lasts for long enough) lasted for two days. Two long, glorious days of Dean seizing any excuse to be close to Cas or any excuse to touch him. To touch Cas--his hands sliding in between the spaces of Cas’ fingers and dipping down to feel the subtle shift of tendons in his wrist. The scent of Cas in his nose, honey and cedar, so strong that Dean could still smell it when he went to bed later that night. The privilege of being able to watch the play of muscles along the back of Cas’ neck and his shoulders. All of it combined in the perfect drug and within two days, Dean was addicted. 

Which was why he had to stop. 

If being close to Cas was a drug then, like any drug, it could be abused. All the careful barriers that Cas had set up between them, Dean trampled. The first time he’d stepped up behind Cas, he’d felt whip-sharp tension run through Cas’ body. He’d felt it, but he hadn’t moved. Instead he’d stayed close enough to feel every time Cas shifted, close enough that all it would have taken was one small step to slot his hips neatly into the curve of Cas’ ass. 

Later that night, Dean had sunk his teeth into the back of his hand as he ruthlessly jerked himself off. He’d tried to imagine any warm body, but his mind kept taking him back to Cas--the scent of him, the heat of him, the sounds that he would make, how his hands would feel on Dean’s skin. Within no time at all, Dean came, a sick rush rocketing through his skin that doused any pleasure in the release. On the heels of that, came the guilt, gnawing at him with sharp piranha teeth. 

Cas isn’t interested in him. Cas isn’t interested in anyone, but especially not in him. And why should he be? Through hard work, sweat, and a few tears that Dean will deny ever shedding, he’s managed to build a fairly decent life, but at his heart, the place that no amount of Christmas bonuses or promotions can touch? He’s still just a fuckup, still that stupid kid who barely held it together through high school. Past experiences have shown that he ruins every relationship that he touches. Why then, would he ever want to inflict himself on Cas? 

With that question weighing on him, Dean has barely been able to stomach being in the same room with Cas. Being close enough to Cas to teach him simple food prep skills is out of the question. Instead, Dean prevailed upon the delivery options of Red Palace’s Chinese food and Nawab’s Indian food (two of Cas’ favorite restaurants, even now Dean’s so goddamn whipped it’s sad). And if Cas is upset about the termination of the cooking lessons, then he keeps his disappointment to himself. 

Before, whenever the empty ache in his chest got too bad, there were options. Dean could go to Sam’s and lick his wounds away from the threat of humiliation. He could stay at Charlie’s place and she would listen to him bitch out his sorrows. He could run to Benny’s place and drink them away. But here, in quarantine, social distancing, or whatever else it’s called, the truth remains the same. He can call his family and friends, but then he’ll hang up the phone and still be stuck with a roommate that he’s not quite in love with, but also not that far away from falling in love with either. Dean will still be who he is and nothing, absolutely nothing, will have changed. 

Dean doesn’t realize that he’s been sketching through his frustration until the tip of his pencil rips through the paper. The sound drags him out of his thoughts and into the equally depressing present. He looks down at his drawing pad and hisses out a low curse of irritation. A mass of seething, dark lines surround the tear in the middle of the paper. The whole thing has been an exercise in futility, which seems an appropriate summation of his life up until that point. 

(Melodramatic? Dean’s never been melodramatic a day in his life.) 

“Goddammit,” Dean breathes. He rips the page straight from his sketchbook. The sound tears through the apartment, a sharp reminder of failure. He tosses the balled up paper towards the direction of the wastebasket, before he pushes away from the dining room table. 

His intention is to take a quick trip around the living room to clear his head. That’s how it begins anyway. How it ends is with Dean rapping his knuckles on Cas’ office door and waiting for a reply. 

“Yeah?” 

“Just me,” Dean tells him, like Cas is expecting company. 

Dean takes the moment’s silence that follows as tacit permission to open the door. Strange to think that he and Cas have been living together for two years, yet he’s only been in Cas’ office a handful of times. Once, he went in to get some papers that Cas had requested. One time he came in to find Castiel slumped over his desk, dead asleep with a puddle of drool forming underneath his cheek. He’d pulled Cas out then, half-asleep, and stumbled the few feet to his room. Cas was complaining all the while, half-hearted little groans that vanished the moment he was dumped into his bed. Dean had watched Cas’ face slacken, its normal severe lines smoothing out into something boyish and open. He’d stood there and contemplated the impossibility of his life: for one person to feel so _much_ and not fall asleep next to the person who inspired it all. 

Dean shakes away the memories and walks inside. As he enters, Cas quickly minimizes a window of text. Before Dean has a chance to get a good look, it disappears into one of the many tabs that Cas has open. When Cas turns his chair around towards the door, there’s something guilty in the edges of his eyes, like Dean just caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“Am I interrupting?” It’s fairly obvious that he is, but it seems polite to ask. 

Cas meets his eyes for a long moment, before he sighs. He runs his fingers through his hair, turning it into even more of a mess. “I don’t suppose so,” he sighs. “It’s just one of those days.” 

Dean huffs before he flops down into the armchair in the corner. “Tell me about it.” He glances around at the walls. Cas has them tastefully decorated, shelves full of knickknacks and reprints of art alongside photos of his own travels, but at the end of the day, they’re still walls. Structures built either to keep something in or keep something out, and at this point, Dean’s had enough of them. He’s suffocating in the square footage of the apartment, buried underneath all these things that he can’t say. 

“You all right?” Cas finally asks, after the silence stretches between them long past the point of awkwardness.

“I’m bored,” Dean explodes, in a petulant sigh. Immediately he hates himself for it: he sounds like a child getting ready to throw a temper tantrum. It’s worse, because he’s next to Castiel, who has never given any indication that he ever gets bored. No, Cas puts his nose to the grindstone and keeps on keeping on, until the job’s done or he’s dead, whichever comes first. That description tends to make Castiel sound boring, which he is most decidedly not. It’s more that Cas approaches every task with the same kind of gritty determination that put together Stonehenge. In the face of that, Dean, who couldn’t hack a whole week of social distancing before he broke, feels about ten inches tall. 

“Are you done with your work?” The question makes Cas sound so much like a prissy schoolmarm that Dean’s nose wrinkles in distaste.

“No, but it’s all turning out shit anyway, so what’s the fucking point.” 

It’s not fair to take out his aggravation on Cas. It’s not Cas’ fault that Dean’s incapable of focusing. It’s definitely not Cas’ fault that Dean’s been holding a torch for years and it’s only just now started to throw off some heat. But once he’s released his pissiness he can’t take it back. All that’s left is flop down into Cas’ squashy armchair, arms folded petulantly over his chest. Cas, demonstrating much more maturity than Dean, turns his chair back towards his computer. After a few seconds, the sounds of typing fill the room. Dean allows himself to become lulled by the sound, so that when Cas speaks and breaks the silence, it’s a surprise. 

“When I was bored, my mother would tell me to read a book.” 

Dean’s eyes flick over to Cas. He’s still facing his computer but the sounds of typing have ceased. There’s a rigidity to his posture and Dean can tell that, whether consciously or not, he’s clenching his jaw. Dean doesn’t speak, barely breathes. 

Dean has met Gabriel, Cas’ older brother, on several memorable occasions, but other than him, Cas doesn’t mention his family except for small, oblique references. Dean knows that Cas’ father is dead and that it’s partly due to an inheritance from him that Cas is able to pursue a livelihood as a writer. He knows that Cas’ mother is still alive and that’s only from overhearing Cas’ side of a stilted, tense phone conversation. Cas might as well have dropped into the world, fully adult, for all Dean knows about his childhood. 

“Or she would tell me to redo my lessons. She would have already marked the places where I struggled and she’d want me to go back and fix every mistake so that I could learn.” Cas shrugs, but it’s a robotic, forced movement. “There were always tasks that she would tell me to do, so I stopped complaining. Either way, she was better than father. She at least acknowledged me.” 

A quick little flash of emotion crosses Cas’ face. Before Cas can clear his throat and calm himself, Dean manages to glimpse anger, yearning, and enough pain to make Dean’s breath catch. Maybe that’s why he reacts the way that he does. 

“If either Sam or I complained that we were bored, Dad would just send us outside to wash the car.” 

The words come before Dean has a chance to stop them. There’s shit that you talk about with your roommate and then there’s shit that you take to your grave, and his father firmly belongs in the latter category. He’ll talk about Sam with Cas all day long, but John Winchester? John Winchester is off limits. 

Except, apparently, he’s not, because Dean keeps on talking. 

“Dad was...He was busy a lot of the time.” _Busy_ is a kind euphemism for _drunk,_ but Cas doesn’t ask and Dean doesn’t explain. “He had a lot of shit on his mind and I guess that was the easiest way he could think of to stop us from complaining. Took me two times and four wax jobs before I figured out what he was doing. Took Sam a little longer.” Dean almost wants to laugh, but the memories aren’t funny. “He was so damn _whiny_. Pissed Dad off because Sam would just wander in and interrupt him, wanting to be read to, wanting to go outside, just wanting attention. So I would make up stuff for him to do so that he wouldn’t bother Dad. I’d hide clues around the house and tell him that there was buried treasure at the end of it. Mostly, it was a candy bar or whatever I’d managed to nick from the store, but he was a kid, so it was all good, you know? Or I’d invent these stories for him--tell him that we were monster hunters and so we needed to find out everything we could about werewolves or that we had to be quiet so that we didn’t wake up the vampires. Kid ate it up.” 

Memories arise. Sam, wide-eyed and slack jawed as Dean tapped his admittedly limited imagination by spinning fantastic tales. Dean, sneaking out of the library as the books he’d shoved underneath his jacket dug bruises into his ribs, all to keep Sam entertained. All to avoid Sam’s brain, impressive even then, running out of entertainment and uttering those damnable words. All to avoid watching his father’s face turn that horrible blend of confused, impotent, and angry as he watched his sons, his obligations, crash into him. 

Dean bats the memories away. That’s not his life anymore. He and Sam got out and went to college. They built lives, away from the memory of John Winchester. It’s not fair that Dean still has to feel that way whenever he thinks about his father. 

“You took care of him.” 

Cas’ quiet voice shakes Dean out of his thoughts. He shrugs and scrubs at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yeah, I guess. I did the best that I could.” 

“Looking at where and how you two ended up, your best was more than adequate.” 

Cas’ eyes meet Dean’s. The length of the room separates them, but at the moment, Dean feels as though he could reach out and brush his fingertips against Cas’ face. The air is so close between them that Dean can barely breathe. 

Cas coughs and rubs at the bridge of his nose before he looks away. “Anyway, you were a better older brother than Gabriel. Whenever he tried to invent a game, it would always end up with me in some kind of dire straits. I remember once I got tossed into the lake, which would have been fine, except Gabriel had forgotten that I didn’t know how to swim.” 

“Sounds like Gabriel.” 

“Well, I was never bored after he got through with me. But getting thrown into lakes or thrown off of roofs, or getting chased by bees--they all got pretty old after a while, so I learned how to entertain myself.” 

“Whoa Cas, not right here.” The words come automatically, as does the image--Cas, writhing among the sheets of his bed, skin flushed and lips parted in ecstasy, muscles flexing as he works at his own cock. What noises does Cas make or does he try to hold them back? Does he slide lube-slick fingers inside of himself or play with his nipples? Does he curse when he comes? 

“Charming,” Castiel comments. His dry voice manages to shock Dean back into the present. Immediately, he’s hit with the overwhelming sense of guilt, but there’s no time to linger on that, not when Cas is shuffling through his shelves. “But this is more along the lines of what I was doing.” 

He slaps down a small cardboard box in front of Dean. Dean looks at the box, then at Cas, and back at the box. “Cas, you nerd.” He shakes the box gingerly and listens to the separate pieces rattle. “You did puzzles?” 

Cas shoots him a mildly offended look. “They were great ways of passing the time. Not to mention an exercise in--”

“Yeah, yeah, fucking save it.” Dean slides down to the floor and dumps the pieces out on Cas’ rug. “Are you going to help me with this or not?” 

Cas looks back at his computer. Dean remembers the mysterious document on Cas’ laptop and the way that he’d minimized it. He’s obviously working on something that he doesn’t want Dean to see, for whatever reason. “I have deadlines,” Cas says, though the words ring like a token protest instead of a genuine reminder. 

Dean hums, flipping pieces over to reveal the bright colors. “Dean, I’m serious. I have responsibilities. I’m still expected to do my job. For that matter, so are you. We can’t just…”

“Damn Cas, either you play hooky or you don’t. I’m not stopping you either way.” 

It takes almost more than Dean has to ignore Cas. His indifference is a complete lie. He’s acutely aware of Cas’ every movement, including his short huff of breath. 

“You’re a menace,” Cas tells him, just before he settles across from Dean on the carpet. Dean hums, ducking his head to hide his smile. “No, I mean it,” Cas insists, though there’s no heat in his voice. “You’re a bad influence.” 

“Not the worst that I’ve been called. Also, I’m sure that Gabriel is a much worse influence than I could ever be and you survived him all right.” 

Cas mutters something under his breath that sounds less than complimentary and Dean grins. For so long, he and Cas have kept a safe distance from each other, both painfully aware of the thin line separating roommate from friend. Neither of them, for whatever reason, have been willing to come up to that line, let alone step over it. 

But this quarantine blurs all the lines. The impossible becomes true, and Cas...Cas looks up and smiles, a little rueful around the edges. Dean returns his smile and something in his chest shifts and makes room for Cas. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


While cooking with Dean is always interesting (Castiel’s dick stirs in his pants as a reminder of exactly how interesting cooking with Dean can be), having Dean cook for him is better still. Castiel’s mouth waters as Dean slides a plate in front of him. The homemade seasoned steak fries are glistening and the burger that Dean made looks juicy and seared to perfection. 

“Sorry that I’ve kind of been falling down on the job. It’s been...it’s been weird.” That’s all Dean offers in explanation, but Castiel doesn’t care. He suspects that this meal is somewhat of an apology, which is fine by him. Dean is welcome to commit imaginary transgressions if this is how he chooses to apologize. 

Castiel is too busy sinking his teeth into the burger to bother with conversation. Flavor explodes on his tongue--salt and seasoning, crisp lettuce and tart pickles, sharp onions and smooth spreads. It’s sheer perfection and if he moans around his mouthful, then who could blame him? 

“That good huh?” 

Castiel’s eyes flick to Dean. For a second he could almost fool himself into thinking that he catches a glimpse of raw hunger on Dean’s face, but then the light shifts, dashing Castiel’s hopes to nothing. Dean is just himself, his face open and pleased as he watches Castiel. In the long run, that’s more than enough. 

“So I’ve got a Skype call set up with Sam for later this evening. Figured that you might want to tag along. That way you can talk to Jess, get all the info that you need for your article.” 

“I wouldn’t want to intrude. I know that this is--”

“No, it’s fine.” Dean scrubs at the back of his neck. “Sam gets kind of boring on the phone you know? But if he has someone to impress then he’ll bring out the really heavy conversation guns.” 

There’s something else lurking underneath Dean’s words. Castiel can’t quite put his finger on what it is, but he knows that it’s something too deep and yet too close to the surface for either of them to name. 

Their conversation from the afternoon still weighs on his mind. He can count the times that Dean’s spoken about a member of his family other than Sam on one hand and still have fingers left over. For his part, his family, other than Gabriel who refuses to be ignored, is a secret that Castiel likes to keep close to his chest. But something about Dean...the careful quiet of him, the easy way that he’d slotted himself into Castiel’s space and Castiel’s routine...It made him dream impossible dreams, dreams that faded the second that Castiel looked too closely at it, but were nice to have all the same. 

“Well, I’d hate Sam’s conversational guns to go unused. You’re sure that Sam and Jess won’t mind?” 

“No, they’ll be fine. Honestly, they’re probably sick of talking to just me anyway.” 

Dean’s shrug is a study in self-deprecation. Like always, it sparks something irritable in the pit of Castiel’s belly. Unlike always, this time he says something about it. 

“I don’t see how that’s possible.” Dean’s eyes fly towards him, widening with surprise before they narrow in suspicion. Castiel doesn’t look at him for too long. He knows that if he does, then he’ll lose his nerve. “I’ve been living with you for two years and I’m not sick of your conversation yet.” 

The faint pink flush that spreads across Dean’s cheeks is a thing of beauty. If Castiel had any skill with art, then he would try to paint it and capture the perfect shade of rose. He’s quite useless in that regard, however, so he just has to settle for trying to capture the color and memory perfectly. 

“Yeah well, try thirty-two years and then come back and see me,” Dean mutters, with enough warning behind the words to scare Castiel off trying to retort. 

With obvious effort, Dean changes the subject to something safe, something that Charlie wanted him to look at earlier, and the previous topic of conversation is forgotten. If Castiel had been allowed to respond, he knows what he would have said. 

_Thirty-two years? Yes please, where do I sign up?_

\---

Castiel’s met Sam Winchester a few times, when he and Jess have been over for dinner, or when he’s stopped by to drop something off for Dean. Every time their paths have crossed, he’s enjoyed the experience. Sam is an easy person to like, all smiles and affability, wrapped up in a package tall enough to touch the ceiling. 

(Castiel’s above average height and he has to look up to meet Sam’s eyes. The man is _large_.)

Sam’s face appears on Dean’s computer screen, with the strange, stilted movement that comes from video calls and the tinny audio associated with the medium. Sam waves enthusiastically, prompting a hesitant wave from Castiel and a muttered _dorks_ from Dean. 

“Hey Cas.” Sam turns so it’s clear that he’s only speaking to Castiel. “How’s quarantine treating you? How many times have you wanted to murder Dean?” 

Warmth spreads through Cas at Sam’s easy inclusion, turning the conversation into what he imagines are the sibling quarrels of a normal family. He and Gabriel banter, but Gabriel is...Gabriel. Nothing is ever quite normal with him. This easy routine, the push and pull of insults laced with love--This is what he always dreamed of when he thought of something as ephemeral as _family_. 

“Cas would never betray me like that.” Dean’s hand lands, heavy and firm, on Cas’ knee. The heat of it bleeds through his jeans and into his skin. “After all the food I’ve made for him the past week?” 

“Really?” The gesture is difficult to catch on a video call, but Castiel thinks that he sees Sam’s eyebrows tick upwards. “He’s making you food?” 

“Well shit Sammy, we both gotta eat. I figure if I’m making it for me, it doesn’t cost a hell of a lot extra to make it for someone else too.” Dean’s tone blusters and snaps. His hand disappears from Castiel’s knee. The place where it once sat feels cold and bereft and his skin tingles with the loss. “Besides, I don’t remember you having any complaints.” 

Castiel feels like it’s his turn to say something, but before he can figure out exactly how to dissipate the tension, Jess does it for him. She plops into view, dressed in a Stanford shirt so large that it has to be borrowed from Sam and sweatpants. Her hair is wet, leaving dark marks around the collar of the shirt. Dark marks litter the area around her eyes and cheeks, evidence of the mask pressing into her skin. 

“Don’t argue with him sweetie, you know that you’re only going to lose.” She plants a sloppy kiss to Sam’s cheek, with a kind of casual intimacy that causes something in Castiel’s chest to tighten. “Hi Cas. Is Dean being awful yet?”

Castiel ignores Dean’s sputterings ( _Why does everyone assume that I’m the awful one, you don’t know, maybe Cas leaves wet towels lying around, why does everyone assume that he’s perfect?)_ and focuses on Jess. “No, Dean’s been lovely.” 

“Ha, you hear that asshole!” Dean shouts, at the same time as Sam croons, “Oh, you hear that jerk? You’ve _lovely_.” He puts enough emphasis on the last adjective to make Castiel’s ears burn. That’s not what he means--he means that spending time with Dean is enjoyable, that when faced with the alternative of being stuck with someone else (Castiel shudders to think what social distancing with Gabriel looks like), or worse, by himself, Dean is clearly the best choice--but there’s also no getting around the obvious double meaning of the word. Because Dean is lovely, in every respect of the word. 

“Boys, boys, you’re both pretty.” Jess pats absently at Sam’s shaggy hair. “You see what I have to deal with?” 

The words are said archly enough, but, even through the pixelated screen, Castiel can see the exhaustion pouring off of her. In addition to the bruises caused by her mask, there are dark circles underneath her eyes. He’s also sure that Jess’ face wasn’t that thin the last time he saw her. 

“How are you?” 

Jess sighs and lifts a shoulder. Sam’s arm comes around her protectively, tucking her to his side. She relaxes into the contact and smiles, rueful and wan. “Remember that conversation we had years and years ago, when I told you that I was going into nursing, and you said, and I quote, “That’s an awesome idea?”” 

It’s unclear as to which of the brothers her question is directed to, so both answer with a vague nod. “Well, just know that when all of this is over, my next order of business is going to be to build a time machine so I can go back in time and kick both of your asses.” 

She finishes with a wide smile. Dean snorts next to him on the couch. “That bad, huh?” he asks, before he heads to their fridge. 

“The only good thing is that I do get to be first in line at the grocery store,” Jess answers. 

Dean returns to the couch, carrying two bottles. The one he sets down on his coaster while the other he offers wordlessly to Castiel, touching his shoulder with the cool, damp glass of the bottle. Castiel nods and Dean pops the cap off, before returning the bottle to him. 

“Anyway, enough complaining. Dean told me that you were writing a story?” Jess wriggles against Sam, shoving him almost out of frame. 

“I am.” Castiel has to remember to pick and choose his words carefully, because this article isn’t the only thing he’s writing. “At first, it started as a case as to why the city should do away with paid parking, but given the current circumstances, it’s morphed into something else.” 

Both Sam and Jess are listening to him with interest and even Dean is waiting for his next words. Normally, the scrutiny would make Castiel shrink away, unaccustomed as he is to the spotlight, but having these three people listen--it sets off a warm spark glowing in the pit of his belly. 

“I thought it would be interesting if I could write an article from a single narrative. You know, we’re getting these broad, doomsday strokes from the media, telling us huge numbers--how many cases, how many deaths, how many ventilators. But I thought that maybe having a single story, from a single nurse, could help us put everything in perspective. Maybe make us feel better about what’s happening.” 

He isn’t even halfway through before he catches Jess’ enthusiastic nod. Immediately after he finishes, Sam leans in close enough to the laptop to give an interesting view of his nostrils. “Cas, that’s a great idea,” he praises. 

“Well, give credit where credit is due, Dean came up with it originally.” 

Dean raises his eyebrows above his beer bottle. “I did?” 

Castiel shrugs. “You had the original idea. I just embellished it.” 

Not the only idea of Dean’s he’s embellished lately, but he’s not going to tell Dean about the other idea. No, that one he’ll take with him to his grave. 

“So what have you two been doing to ease the quarantine woes?” 

Castiel looks at Dean, pausing before he answers. Their routine unfolds in front of him--quiet mornings floating around each other, Dean wordlessly taking Castiel’s empty plate to put in the dishwasher. The separation into their work spaces until lunch, Castiel taking Dean’s empty mug off of the dining room table as he starts to make a sandwich. The subdued conversation dissolving into peals of laughter as Dean eventually gives up for the day and wanders into Castiel’s office. The music playing loud as they make dinner and the good-natured arguments about what to watch later that night. The fact that their dinners stretch out into hour long affairs, neither of them willing to get up from the table. Dean’s shoulder pressing into his as they bow their heads over the puzzle in Castiel’s office, both of them concentrating on making a whole out of a thousand separate parts. 

(There’s a metaphor that Castiel is willfully ignoring.)

It’s all somehow too close to spill those details out to Sam. Castiel feels an oddly possessive urge to protect those moments and shield them from the outside world. They’re _private,_ something between just him and Dean.

Dean must feel the same way because he shrugs, careless as he lifts his bottle up to his lips once more. “Fuck ton of nothing Sammy. We can’t all crochet baby clothes or whatever else it is that you’re doing with your days.” 

That sparks a heated debate between the brothers. Castiel listens to the various insults thrown over the screens (“ _It shows dexterity and craftsmanship and there’s actually a bunch of mathematics involved with the patterns, maybe you could appreciate that if your head wasn’t shoved up your ass”, “Whatever Samantha, why don’t you go knit me some doilies and cry about it”, “You know, maybe if you got over yourself you would be able to see--”)_ , while at the same time feeling oddly put out that Dean managed to dismiss their days into something ordinary. The shining veneer of those memories is stripped away, leaving something dingy and tarnished in their place. 

Sam and Dean’s bickering reaches a pitch that’s close to deafening. Only Jess’ shout, loud enough to strike fear into the heart of any warrior, stops them. “The second that this is over, I swear to god, I’m going to throw you both into a mud pit and just let you wrestle it out.” Despite the fact that she’s dwarfed by both brothers, Castiel doesn’t doubt that she could do it. “And then Cas and I will go and get margaritas and you won’t be invited.” 

“You and Sam keep on trying to turn Cas against me,” Dean says, his tone as jovial as though he hadn’t just been snapping at his brother, “but it’s never going to happen.” 

Castiel isn’t ready for the arm slung over his shoulder. That small amount of physical contact is enough to short-circuit his brain, so when Dean’s lips press into his temple, he’s amazed that his heart doesn’t implode on the spot. His world narrows to the smallest of details--Dean’s arm heavy around his shoulders, the softness of his flannel brushing against the back of his neck. The slightly chapped, rough skin of Dean’s lips pressing into his skin, the puffs of warm breath stirring his hair. 

Castiel lives a dozen lives in that moment, where such unconscious acts of affection are the norm, where he can lift his chin and Dean, understanding exactly what he wants, will drop a kiss to his waiting mouth. 

Castiel crashes into reality as Dean jostles his shoulder. It’s a friendly, fraternal shake, and it topples all of Castiel’s dreams like building blocks. It reminds Castiel of his part in this piece--he is not the love interest. He is the roommate. He is amusing to spend time with now, and perhaps Dean will remember these weeks with some degree of fondness in the future, enough to invite him out for drinks, but he is ultimately expendable. 

Castiel knows the part that he’s supposed to play--for Dean as well as for Sam and Jess, who are both suspiciously quiet. “Not as long as you keep on making burgers for dinner.”

He flicks his eyes up to Dean’s face and catches a hint of something--disappointment, irritation--but it’s gone so quickly that it’s not a struggle for Castiel to believe that he’s imagined it. “Seems like a deal. Loyalty in return for food.” 

“Sounds like someone else we know.” Perhaps it’s just the lagging picture on the laptop screen, but his and Jess’ smiles appear oddly fixed. 

“I’m a growing boy.” Dean still hasn't’ pulled his arm away from Castiel’s shoulders. It feels more like a yoke than anything companionable, but Castiel is so pathetic that he doesn’t shrug out from underneath it. Instead he allows it to remain for the rest of the conversation, until Sam and Jess sign off, citing exhaustion, but with something else lurking just underneath the surface of their words. 

Dean doesn’t move his arm and Castiel lets the weight pull him under. 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*~


	4. flexibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For not having drunk the night before, Dean wakes up feeling hungover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love that almost every single comment on the last chapter was "Oh. So they're idiots." 
> 
> They are such big idiots. The only thing stronger than their stupidity is their love.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**day eight**

For not having drunk the night before, Dean wakes up feeling hungover. 

There’s a particular series of emotions that Dean associates with waking up the morning after a series of bad decisions. There’s the initial confusion, followed by the realization that  _ something  _ bad happened the night before. Then there’s the slow recall as his brain filters in the major events, followed by minor details. Then, there’s the crushing weight of regret as the full span and breadth of his decisions, along with their consequences, finally sink in. 

“Oh hell,” Dean mutters, finally awake and cognizant enough to appreciate the disaster that he was last night. He reaches for his phone and notes the time (already nine thirty; serves him right for bragging about how easy it was for him to keep to a schedule), before he finds his messages. He navigates automatically towards Charlie’s thread. Maybe Sam would be better, but Sam was useless at stopping the disaster of Dean Winchester last night, so his judgement is questionable at best. 

**_fucked up last night_ **

Charlie texts back, close to immediately.  **_what’d you do go out and lick a doorknob?_ **

Dean can’t even find it in him to smile.  **_no i kissed cas_ **

**_WHAT?!?!?!?! R U KIDDING?_ ** A series of laughing emojis and dancing gifs follows. Swiftly after those comes  **_so y is this a bad thing?_ **

**_don’t get too excited. it was a grandma temple kiss_ **

Ellipses hover on Dean’s screen for a long time as Charlie debates what to say. She types and deletes her message several times. Her message, when it finally arrives, is not worth the wait.  **_ok so why all the angst then_ **

**_because if i was gonna kiss him then i want it to be a real kiss not a wimpy kiss. plus cas isn’t interested_ **

Dean can practically hear Charlie’s frustrated huff as he reads her next text.  **_and you know this how? u ever bother to ask him how he feels? don’t answer that because i know that you haven’t_ **

Now is the time where, if Dean were at the office, he would storm away from the conversation. Possibly, he would slam a door for emphasis. Due to quarantine, he’s limited to tossing his phone onto the mattress. It’s not nearly as satisfying. The gesture also rings hollow when he realizes that his temper tantrum is without a witness. He picks up his phone again, determined that he’s going to get the last word.  **_i’ve dropped so many hints for him that he would have to be blind or an idiot not to pick up on them and cas isn’t stupid_ **

**_ok so maybe he really is just that clueless_ **

Damn Charlie. Every time that she and Dean have this conversation it ends the same way, with hope and despair mingling in Dean’s stomach. He’d rather squash the hope than have it rear its ugly head day after day.  **_no one is that dense. if he’s not getting the hints it’s because he doesn’t want to get them._ ** Before Charlie can respond,  **_seriously leave it. it was a stupid spur of the moment thing and it won’t happen again. just hope that cas isn’t mad at me_ **

Dean can almost see Charlie’s disappointed frown when she texts him next.  **_you kidding? cas could never be mad at you._ ** Before Dean can text back with a negative, Charlie’s already sent another message. **_i’m just saying that next time you should give him a good winchester kiss instead of a wimpy grandma kiss and see what happens_ **

**_yeah ok you missed the part where i said he wasn’t interested_ **

**_and you missed the part where i said that a pussy grandma temple kiss is no way to verify that_ **

Dean rolls his eyes before he places his phone on his nightstand. Charlie wasn’t there, so she doesn’t know. She didn’t feel how Cas’ body tensed the second that Dean’s lips touched his skin. It was a stupid as fuck, split-second decision. If Dean had been thinking clearly and hadn’t been seduced by half-formed dreams of belonging, then he never would have slipped up in the first place. With Sam and Jess there, it was just so damn easy to pretend that he and Cas shared the same kind of relationship. It was so easy, in fact, that for one fatal second, Dean bought into his own fantasy. 

It’s difficult, but he drags himself away from his pity party and into the bathroom. After his shower, while he’s drip-drying onto his bedspread, he picks up his phone again. Absurdly, he looks towards the door, like he’s going to find someone lurking there, waiting to catch him in the act. Unsurprisingly, there’s no one there and Dean navigates to his guilty pleasure in relative peace. 

It only takes Dean a few flicks of his thumbs to find the blog. “Emmanuel” or whoever the hell he is, doesn’t update every day, but he averages at least three updates a week. By Dean’s count, he’s just about due for another one, and wouldn’t you know it, he’s right. Out of habit, Dean glances at the timestamp on the latest update. According to his clock, it was posted in the small hours of the morning. Judging from the solid block of text in the update, Emmanuel gets chatty late at night. 

_ It’s usually amazing when straight men don’t live up to stereotypes. It’s wonderful when they show affection, or they get in touch with their feelings, or do they do any one of a thousand things that they’re told they can’t do because those things are too “girly” for “real” men. But if you’re nursing a crush, then you want your roommate to kind of hold onto those little vestiges of toxic masculinity, if only for your own peace of mind. You don’t want him to be an ass, but you don’t want him to become even more wonderful than you already think he is. This is all just a very long-winded way of saying that I can’t deal with anything that upsets our status quo of ‘two bros living together’. And this whole quarantine thing is starting to really upset the status quo of ‘two bros living together’.  _

_ (AKA, my roommate is being weirdly affectionate and I have no fucking clue how I’m supposed to handle it.)  _

_ It’s because he can’t go out and meet anyone new. He’s stuck with me and I’m a substitute for everything, including physical affection. Don’t get gross or get your hopes up. It’s just hugs--stuff that could be passed off as bro bonding except he never acted like this before quarantine. And I’m pathetic and read too much into everything, including bro hugs. And the worst part is that these bro-hugs have an expiration date. The second that we get the all clear, he’ll be out the door and I’ll be on my own again. I’m just an amusing pastime while we’re stuck inside.  _

Dean’s chest clenches. Ok, so reading Emmanuel’s blog doesn’t always make him feel good. Sometimes it’s damned depressing, especially when Emmanuel seems to echo so many of his own thoughts. Dean never quite manages to forget the fact that his newfound friendship with Cas will most likely dissolve the second that social distancing ends. This quarantine is a moment stolen from the rest of his life, and like all stolen things, eventually it must be returned. When life goes back to normal, so will he and Cas. 

_ But I’m pathetic enough that I want to hold onto whatever little bit I get for as long as I can.  _

Dean frowns. He notices, before he closes the tab, that the blog’s layout is much more professional and appealing than the last time he visited. Either Emmanuel’s gotten a hell of a lot better at coding or he’s managed to hire a web designer. “Well, your love life is for shit, but at least it looks like your wallet’s good,” Dean says to no one in particular, before he gets dressed.

He picks a shirt and a pair of jeans at random; no point in trying to look nice. He stumbles through the living room and comes to a stop at the kitchen. There’s no evidence that anyone has been here recently--no dishes in the sink, no cereal or juice left out. There’s nothing, other than the two beer bottles from last night. 

Dean’s stomach rumbles angrily in a warning against a meager bowl of cereal. It wants carbs and starches and grease and salt. No way in hell that Dean is going to make a gourmet breakfast, not this morning, which leaves only one real option. 

“Hey Cas?” he calls out as he heads for Cas’ side of the apartment. “I’m going to order DoorDash from Benny’s. You want me to get you something?” A gentle shove of Cas’ office door reveals an empty room. Cas’ laptop is abandoned on his desk. The screensaver displays carefully neutral pictures of gentle landscapes. 

For a moment, Dean hesitates as he looks at the alluring screen. He remembers the swift, furtive way that Cas minimized his work, the wary glint as his eyes slid away from Dean’s. His innate curiosity screams at him to investigate further, but he forces himself to close the door to the office and walk away. He can’t help but think about the blossoming friendship between him and Cas, and what a violation of trust would do to that relationship. 

Dean pushes the thought of Cas’ laptop out of his mind and contemplates the larger obstacle in front of him. Castiel’s bedroom door looms before him, leering in acknowledgement of his inability to go beyond its threshold. Dean raps his knuckles against the cheap, plywood door, and is amazed when a warning electric shock doesn’t race through the wood. 

“Cas? You decent?” 

“Yeah, come in.” 

Dean’s fingers wrap around the door handle (forbidden territory!) and he pushes open the door. As he comes to terms with the sight in front of him, he silently curses Castiel for a damn liar. 

Because while Cas might be clothed, he is certainly  _ not _ decent. 

Dean doesn't even get a chance to appreciate the dark cherry wood of Cas’ furniture or the sturdy headboard and dark blue comforter of his bed. The only thing that he has eyes for is  _ Cas _ . His eyes are immediately drawn to the muscular thighs and pert ass clad in pants so tight that Dean can  _ see _ the muscles flex. A loose sleeveless shirt rides up high on Cas’ back, displaying the knobs of his spine. Normally, when confronted with the object of his lust looking like a wet dream, Dean would just focus on Cas’ face, but his current prediction doesn’t allow for that. 

Cas’ back is to him, which isn’t even the main problem. The  _ problem _ is that Cas is bent low at the waist, his legs spread wide enough to make Dean wince. Cas’ arms are folded behind his back and he looks at Dean through the wide vee of his legs. 

Dean’s mind goes blank. He knows that he had a reason for wanting to talk to Cas, but for the life of him, he can’t remember it. His entire frontal cortex is taken up with the effortless strength of Cas’ muscles, not to mention, the sight of his ass in skintight yoga pants. He swears that he can see the globes clench as Cas, thankfully, straightens into a standing position with his arms at his side. 

The change in positions is enough for Dean to grasp at the scattered remnants of his purpose. “Listen, I um, I overslept and I was thinking that I was going to get something from Benny’s and I was wondering if…” 

Dean’s train of thought derails once more as he watches Cas spread his legs to a truly obscene angle. One hand lays flat on his mat while the other reaches towards the ceiling. The look on his face is serene, all of his normal scowls and quirks smoothed away. 

“I was wondering if you wanted anything when I order.” The words slur together in a long stretch of syllables, but he thinks that he manages to get across the basic gist. 

Cas hums softly. “A western omelette? Hash browns? Bacon?” 

“You want pancakes?” 

Without showing any real effort, Cas smoothly shifts to standing straight up. Dean watches his shoulders lift with each deep inhalation and drop with his slow exhalations. “That would be lovely. I could pay you back.” 

Dean’s about ready to accept (he’s not made of money and Benny’s food, while delicious, doesn’t come cheap), and he would have gone for the wallet on Cas’ dresser, were it not for what happens next. 

Cas stretches and lowers himself into the pose that even Dean, in his yoga ignorance, knows is called ‘downward facing dog’. It’s a basic yoga pose; he knows this. But what he didn’t know was just how weak he is when confronted with Cas bent over double in front of him, ass in the air. 

Thank god, thank  _ fuck  _ that Cas’ back is to him. He doesn’t know how he would manage to explain away the incriminating bulge pressing insistently at the seam of his pants. An overactive imagination bombards Dean with thousands of images and scenarios--him walking across the few feet that separate them and manhandling Cas into a heady, fervent kiss. Him bending Cas over the mattress, Cas’ legs atop his shoulders, that flexible body folded almost in half as Dean pounds into him, those long, elegant fingers teasing him, wrapping around his cock and slipping inside him, pressing until they find that magic spot--

“No, it’s good, don’t worry about it,” Dean chokes out, before he flees. The last thing he sees before he shuts the door is Cas dropping into a plank and holding for several seconds before he starts to twist himself into another complicated pose. 

He makes it back to his room and closes the door behind him. He barely remembers to flip the lock before he’s shimmying out of his pants. Released from the confines of his jeans, his dick rises to brush against his lower belly, hard and interested in a way that he thought he’d left behind when he bid farewell to his mid-twenties. 

He doesn’t even bother with the shower. He tumbles onto his bed, fingers wrapping around his dick in a dry stroke that’s  _ too much not enough _ but still so  _ good _ . “Oh fuck,” Dean whimpers before he digs his teeth into his lower lip. He has to be quiet. The thought of Cas guessing what he’s doing sends a bolt of shame through him, but even that’s not enough to quell his arousal. 

It’s gross, using Cas to fuel his own fantasies, but he can’t, he  _ can’t _ \--Cas’ body flowing elegantly through the different poses, Cas bending over in front of him, pants tight against the curves of his ass and the flex of his thighs, Cas completely unconscious of his own allure, Cas’ throaty laugh and the curve of his neck as he tosses his head back in delight--

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean chants as he comes, quick and dirty, over his own knuckles. He hisses through the rest of his orgasm and doesn’t stop stroking until he’s trembling and oversensitive. 

It’s not like it comes as a surprise that Cas does yoga. Hadn’t he listened to Cas and Lisa jabber on about the different routines or the benefits of strengthening versus flexibility and all the other topics that a yoga teacher and a yoga aficionado could discuss? So yeah, he’d known that Cas did yoga, but he hadn’t  _ known.  _ It’s the difference between knowing that jumping off the roof will probably hurt and feeling your wrist break when you hit the ground. 

Dean takes one deep breath and then another. His heart slows its frantic pace enough for him to sit up. He uses the wet wipes in his bedside drawer to wipe off the mess on his stomach before he changes into a new set of boxers. He shrugs into his jeans and tosses the wipe but he can’t manage to toss away the lingering sense of guilt. 

Quite apart from his crush, Dean’s discovering that Castiel is actually someone he can be friends with. He’s always thought so, but these past few weeks have proven his hunch true. He’s had a chance to discover just how nimbly Cas’ mind works, as well as the wicked sense of humor that Cas normally hides. He’s had occasion to witness the wide streak of kindness running through Castiel, as well as his playful side he so rarely unleashes. By the end of this, Dean knows that he’s going to count Castiel among his closest friends, right up there with Sam, Jess, Charlie, and Benny. 

He doesn’t want--he  _ can’t-- _ ruin it all over a stupid crush. 

Dean scrubs his hands through his hair before he grabs his phone to put in their breakfast order.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

**day ten**

At the obscene hour of 4:23 am, Castiel is awoken by the shrill ringing of his phone. 

He grapples amongst the blankets of his bed as he tries to free his hands. Conquering the obstacle of bed linens, he fumbles for his lamp. The normally dull light assaults his eyes. He hisses in discomfort, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes, and still the damned phone won’t shut up. He finally manages to find the accursed object and squints irritably at the name on the screen. Once his sleep-stupid brain manages to translate the separate letters into a name he groans, flopping back into the pillows. 

He’s halfway tempted not to answer, but he already knows, from experience, that won’t deter the caller. He could turn off his phone, but then he and Dean would probably get a visit from the fire department--a call that someone smelled gas or smoke in the apartment. 

Gabriel always did have a touch of the melodramatic. 

Castiel swipes at his phone and presses it to his ear. “What?” he groans, wishing a painful accident for his brother. 

“Cassie!” Gabriel’s voice is bright and sunny, as well it might be. Castiel calculates potential time differences in his head. It takes him a moment; his brain is sluggish and Gabriel has several residences in which he could have gone to ground. Wherever he may be, no doubt it’s well into the afternoon wherever he is. “How’s it hanging bro?”

“You’re a fairly intelligent man,” Castiel growls, feeling no need to be polite, “so why is it that you can’t figure out time zones?” 

Gabriel makes a derisive noise. “Time is a construct baby bro, haven’t you figured that out yet?” 

“It’s  _ four _ in the  _ morning _ ,” Castiel growls. 

“Oh.” Gabriel genuinely sounds like he hasn’t considered that fact, which tells Castiel that his brother knows exactly what time it is. He just doesn’t care. “Well, you’re awake now, so I ask again--how’s it hanging?” 

“Slightly to the left,” Castiel answers. Gabriel has a tendency to bring out the worst in him. He sighs and rearranges himself on the pillows, knowing already that he’s not going back to sleep anytime soon. “We’re under a stay at home order. No travel out except to go to essential places and only essential employees are to leave their homes. Last time I checked, freelance writers weren’t essential to anything, so I’ve been in the apartment for the past two weeks.” 

“How do they check?”

“What?” 

“How do they check to make sure that you’re going someplace essential? I mean, if someone pulled me over when I was headed towards a booty call, I would just lie and tell them that I was headed towards the grocery store. How do you enforce something like that?” 

“I don’t know. I guess it’s more of an honor system? Maybe they follow you to make sure that you go where you say you’re going? I hadn’t really thought of it.” Now that Gabriel’s brought it up, however, Castiel knows that it’s a thought that’s going to linger. That’s the thing about Gabriel--his mind works strangely, yet it’s captivating in its abstractness. 

“Of course you hadn’t.” Gabriel sighs in a long, disappointed huff. Mostly, when older brothers made that sound, they’d caught their younger siblings in some kind of trouble--stealing, lying, making trouble. 

Gabriel made that sound when Castiel stuck to unquestioning obedience. Was it any wonder then, under such pressure, that Castiel had started to question the rules and eventually break them? 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there is a pandemic going on.” Castiel pauses. It’s entirely possible that Gabriel hasn’t noticed. “Where are you anyway?” 

“Little cottage in Mykonos, Greece. Kali had it as a vacation house. We decided to lay low here because, surprising as it may seem, we have actually noticed that the world is falling apart at the seams.” 

Castiel has his doubts about the  _ little  _ and  _ cottage  _ descriptions of the house. He’s familiar with both Gabriel and Kali’s tastes, and he knows that neither of them are familiar with the adjective  _ little.  _ “Something tells me that your quarantine and my quarantine are not the same.” 

“Hm. Probably not. I’m actually getting some over my quarantine.” 

Castiel loves his brother. He really does. Gabriel was there for him at a time when no one else was, not even his own parents. But sometimes, his brother is an utter dick. 

Gabriel realizes it, after a second. “Shit. That was below the belt. I’m sorry Cassie.” 

“Yeah. Whatever.” Castiel brushes off the hurt--it’s the truth after all, even if Gabriel could have done him the courtesy of ignoring it. 

“Look, maybe it’s just on my mind because I couldn’t help thinking about your predicament.” Gabriel pauses. His next word is laden with insinuation. “ _ Emmanuel.”  _

Ice surrounds Castiel’s chest as he quickly prepares and just as quickly discards any excuses or lies. It was an absurd thought that no one would recognize him. He’s used the name Emmanuel before as a pen name. Anyone familiar with that fact and who’s met him over the past two years, could easily put two and two together and come up with four. It’s both to his benefit and detriment that it’s Gabriel who’s managed to come to this conclusion. He knows that Gabriel would never willingly expose his secrets, the same way that he knows that Gabriel is never going to let him rest. 

Gabriel continues, his voice smug and satisfied. “You’re going viral baby bro, even across the ocean. Imagine my shock when I found myself reading my brother’s erotic longings on my morning twitter feed.” 

Castiel flushes as his hackles rise. “They’re not  _ erotic,”  _ he snaps. It’s one thing to pour out his semi-anonymous longings and desires to millions of otherwise anonymous faces. It’s quite another to have his brother confront him about it. 

“It’s all in the subtext. And you know that you can’t spell subtext without…” Gabriel allows his voice to taper off, lilting and teasing. When Castiel doesn’t bite, he shifts gears, so seamlessly that it leaves Castiel’s mind spinning. “Anyway, I like the layout and the advertising. Very tasteful, very discreet. It’s a pretty nice little setup.” 

“It’s been...profitable,” Castiel admits. 

He’s being modest.  _ Emmanuel  _ has netted him more cash in less than two weeks than his last six stories combined. Who would have thought that so many people would latch onto a story of repressed sexual tension? He’d watched in mute amazement as the hit counter on the blog went from the thousands to the ten thousands and eventually tripped into the hundred thousands. Now, on Day Ten, he’s poised right at the precipice of a million hits. Naturally, advertisers had flocked to him, eager to get a piece of the action. 

Castiel’s bank account has never been empty but it’s also never been quite this full either. His first advance was enough for him to seek out a web designer to put together a professional and engaging look for the blog. Their talents were far beyond what his own, meager skills could accomplish and he’d watched as more and more visitors flocked to his page. 

Bloggers don’t make money. Occasionally they get plagiarized and screenshots of their work show up on twitter, tumblr, or whatever other social media platform will have them, but they certainly don’t make the kind of money that currently resides in his bank account. 

“With the kind of traffic that you’re grabbing, I’d say so.” Gabriel chuckles. “Hell, if you can spin this little yarn of yours out to its logical conclusion, I’d say that you might have enough to get your own little cottage right beside ours. We could be vacation buddies!” 

Castiel loves his brother. But seventeen years of a shared childhood and the occasional visit, are more than enough to keep him happy. 

“You know that these people are going to want a conclusion, right?” Gabriel’s voice is unusually sharp, almost like he’s delivering a warning. “They’re not going to be happy with reading your Jane Austen tale of repression forever.” 

“It’ll be fine.” It really is way too fucking early in the morning for this talk. 

“I don’t think that you get it.” Gabriel has a rare note of impatience in his voice. “You’re basing this whole romance off of your own life, which fine, you want to air your dirty laundry over the Internet for upwards of a million people, that’s your own business. But these people don’t know that they’re reading the Sad Chronicles of Castiel Novak. They think that they’re reading the story of Emmanuel, and they’re going to want a happy ending.” 

“I assume that you’re getting to a point here?” 

“First, I’m extremely disappointed that you let ‘happy ending’ slip past you.” Gabriel pauses. “And you’ve done it again, Jesus. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.” 

“Gabriel…” 

“Fine, fine, difficult to believe that we came from the same mother, but Mommy and Daddy dearest always insisted that you weren’t adopted so I suppose that I’ll have to take them at their word. The point that I’m trying to get at, dearest Cassie, is that if you are basing this little tale around your own life, you’re going to have to make a move of your own if you want to give your readers an authentic experience.” 

“You’re thinking in narrow terms. Readers don’t expect a happy ending.” 

“And there it is again, my god, there really is something wrong with you. And of course they expect a...felicitous conclusion to the story that they’ve been reading. They can tout the gritty reality, oh boo hoo not every story ends well, but deep down, you know that’s not what people want.” 

“Gabriel, what’s your point?”

“Everyone wants Emmanuel to bone his roommate! They want Emmanuel to do the dirty with his roommate, which means that they want  _ you  _ to do the dirty with that bow-legged beauty, which is convenient, since you  _ also _ want to do the frick-frack with dear old Deano.” 

Castiel blinks. “Exactly how many euphemisms for sex can you fit into a single conversation?” 

“Oh, you don’t want to know. But now do you see what I’m getting at?” 

“I do, and I don’t feel like I need to tell you exactly how disturbing it is to hear my older brother discussing my fake sex life.”

“Doesn’t have to be fake.” Castiel can almost imagine the salacious waggle of Gabriel’s eyebrows. “If you just acknowledge that your balls dropped a long time ago and make a freaking move, your sex life could travel into the realm of non-fiction.” 

“I thought we agreed that you were never going to mention my balls in polite conversation?” 

“Too bad that this isn’t polite conversation. I’m serious Cas, at this point you’ve got to shit or get off the pot.” 

“There’s just the small problem of Dean’s sexuality to take into account,” Castiel says dryly. It’s not like he and Gabriel haven’t had this conversation before, but never with this amount of vigor. 

Castiel also hadn’t been making money off of his unrequited love affair before either. 

“No man that pretty is one hundred percent straight.” Castiel wishes that he had Gabriel’s careless convictions. “Besides, you’re not hideous. You’re not my type, but you’re enough to make someone look twice, especially if you shake that ass at them.” 

“Add my ass to the list of my body parts that I’d like you to never mention again,” Castiel murmurs. “Besides, it’s not…” He trails off, not wanting to give Gabriel any ammunition, but unfortunately, his brother is not nearly as stupid as he sometimes likes to pretend. 

“It’s not what?” A pause and then Gabriel sucks in a surprised breath. “You mean to say that it’s not like that? You mean that you don’t want to ravage that fine ass of his?” 

“Please don’t talk about Dean’s ass.” Castiel’s not sure why he’s so against discussing Dean’s ass (he’s had occasion to observe it many times and it really is an exemplary piece of craftsmanship), other than it just feels... _ wrong.  _ Listening to Gabriel discuss Dean like he’s just another conquest, something to be enjoyed and then tossed away in the morning, rubs against him exactly the wrong way. Dean’s not just a piece of ass. 

He’s the man who makes Castiel breakfast in the morning, the man who patiently walks Castiel through various recipes and doesn’t lose his temper when Castiel manages to spill eggs over the whole counter. He’s the man who mocks Castiel’s love for puzzles, yet spends hours cross-legged on the floor next to Castiel fretting over where to put individual pieces. Despite the harsh exterior that he likes to project to the world, there’s an innate core of sweetness in Dean that Castiel’s only starting to mine. 

“Dean’s my friend,” Castiel decides. It’s not exactly the right word to describe what Dean is to him, but it’s the one that fits the best. 

There must be something in his voice proprietary enough to warn Gabriel off. Either that or he’s just grown bored with the game. “You know I’m just worried about you.” 

Castiel softens. Not even Gabriel can fake that kind of sincerity. “I know. It’ll be fine.” He laughs, trying to convince himself as well as Gabriel, but the sound is a little too brittle to be believable. “Who knows? Maybe Emmanuel will get his happy ending. In every sense of the world,” he adds, before Gabriel has a chance to add anything else. 

Gabriel sighs. “Well, it’s better than nothing, I suppose. Take care of yourself Cassie. I guess tell Deano to take care of himself too.” 

Castiel murmurs a goodbye and hangs up. It might be the last time he talks to his brother until the quarantine is lifted, or Gabriel might call tomorrow night because he was bored and Kali got tired of entertaining him. It’s Gabriel. Thirty-two years and Castiel still can’t predict how Gabriel will handle a situation. 

After hanging up with Gabriel, Castiel tries to go back to sleep, but he quickly dismisses it as a futile endeavor. He tries reading, but he can’t focus on the words long enough to glean any meaning from them. Finally, he sighs and rolls out of bed. Shrugging into a shirt, he wanders into the kitchen. 

He only turns on the underlighting of the cabinets. It’s all he needs to make himself a mug of tea. Soon, the soothing scent of herbs fills the kitchen. Castiel breathes them in and feels some of the tension leave his muscles. He’s still not calm enough to sleep, but enough to begin to calm the raging swirl of emotions. 

He makes his way to the living room, where he flips on the television and immediately lowers the volume. He flips through programs, looking for something banal enough to soothe his brain into something resembling repose. He settles on some home improvement show and becomes enamored of the sight of people making ugly houses beautiful. 

He thought that he was being quiet, but evidently he wasn’t quiet enough. Dean’s bedroom door creaks and the man himself stumbles out. He rubs at his eyes as a wide yawn splits his face. “Cas?” he asks, leaning against the wall. “What are you doing up?” 

Cas shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep.” Guilt squirms in his gut. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

Dean stifles a half-formed yawn as he walks out to the living room. “‘S fine. I wasn’t sleeping well anyway.” 

Castiel doesn’t believe him, but he also doesn’t call Dean out on his lie. Dean stops in front of the couch, then stares down at Castiel. After a moment, he makes a shooing motion with his hands. “Move over.” 

Castiel moves so he gives Dean half the couch. Dean takes him up on the offer, collapsing next to him. “So what are we watching?” 

Normally, when they sit together on the couch, Castiel is intimately aware of each inch of space separating him from Dean. He pays attention to the electric currents of the room and makes sure to stay out of Dean’s orbit. But tonight, he’s too tired to pay attention to something so utterly meaningless. His shoulder presses against Dean’s as the show lulls him into a stupor. He thinks that he remembers his head dropping onto Dean’s shoulder, but by that point, he’s already floating away. 

\---

Castiel wakes the next morning, curled on the couch, with a throw tucked around his sleeping form. He yawns and stretches. After a night spent on the couch instead of his bed, he would expect his joints and back to creak in protest, but they’re all in normal working order. He yawns once, for the satisfaction of the gesture more than a need. 

“Hey.” 

In the kitchen, Dean is already awake. Dressed in his robe, he turns around, skillet in hand. It’s then that Castiel catches the savory scent of bacon and eggs. His stomach rumbles in appreciation. “Breakfast?” Dean asks. 

There’s something shy and bashful about Dean’s smile. The sight of it makes Castiel’s heart thump at his sternum. It longs to be free, but he restrains himself. 

“Yeah, that would be great.” The blanket slips off of his shoulders as he goes to join Dean. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	5. sparks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dean?” 
> 
> Cas’ low voice shakes him out of the memories. Dean curses, softly and viciously, as he tries to rearrange his face into something approaching normalcy, but who knows what Cas managed to see or how he’ll interpret it. The man seems to veer between utter ignorance and innate understanding when it comes to the mysteries of human emotion. On any given day, Dean never knows which side of the coin Cas will land on. 
> 
> “What’s wrong?” 
> 
> So it’s going to be one of those days, when Cas can pare him down to his bare bones with nothing more than a look.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The back half of this chapter is dedicated to Misha's quarantine beard and quarantine hair. (RIP quarantine beard)

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**day fourteen**

  
  


Dean sits back and massages his wrist after he finishes entering all the relevant numbers and measurements into the computer program. Due to the lack of heavy processing equipment, he’s not able to run many simulations from home, but he can at least run preliminary testing for potential projects. So far, today’s been a success and he opens up FaceTime to tell Charlie. As the one who designed this particular program, she’ll want to hear about his (and its) success. 

However, it’s not Charlie but rather her girlfriend Gilda that picks up his call. Dean smiles to see her. He misses spending time with them. Gone, at least for now, are their game nights and LARPing adventures. Dean has to admit that Charlie makes a hell of a queen and Gilda, as her fairie lover, always manages to create an impression. 

She’s far from her full courtly regalia now as she lounges on the couch with large swatches of fabric spread around her. “Hi Dean,” she greets, her voice low and melodious. “I assume that you’re looking for Charlie?” 

“You’re a nice consolation prize.” Gilda smiles at the compliment as she cuts through what looks like an old pair of sheets. “Whatcha doing there?” 

“Making homemade masks.” Gilda frowns at the fabric in her hands, mentally measuring, before she sets the fabric aside. She looks at the screen and shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like anyone’s really ordering any custom RenFaire gear right now and I’m going crazy without something to do. This seemed like the best solution. Plus,” she looks over her shoulder before she leans closer, her voice dipping, “it gets rid of some of those ugly sheets.” 

“I heard that!” Charlie appears in the frame, happily sitting down on the cushion and disturbing all of Gilda’s careful organization. “Those happened to be my third favorite set of sheets, but we all have to make sacrifices.” 

“Hey, if you’re making masks, maybe you should talk to Sam. He’s starting to crochet.”

“You know,” Gilda says serenely, “there have been numerous articles about the benefits of--”

“Save it, you damn hippy,” Dean orders, but there’s no real heat in his voice. “Anyway, I need to talk to the redhead.” 

“It had better not be about work. If anyone damn person calls me asking how to attach a pdf to an email or wanting to know how to join a Zoom meeting, I might just eat my phone out of spite.” 

“All right, no work.” Dean’s not going to argue. The longer that quarantine stretches, the more pointless his busy work becomes. It’s hard to become inspired by a design when he knows that the project isn’t going to be greenlit for at least another few months.

Unfortunately, without the talk of work, their conversational topics run a little thin. It’s not as though any of them are going out and experiencing the world in any significant way. Also, he has another reason why he doesn’t want to discuss his quarantine life with Charlie. While he loves her like the little sister that he never had, the downside is that she’s just as nosy and annoying as his nonexistent little sister presumably would be. 

True to form, she leans in close to the screen. “How goes the ineffective seduction of Cas?” Certainly she doesn’t mean to be so loud, but it doesn’t stop her voice from echoing off of the walls and ceiling. To Dean’s paranoid ears, Charlie might as well be in surround sound. 

“Jesus.” A quick glance over his shoulder assures him that Cas’ office door remains closed. “Shout it a little louder, why don’t you?”

“Oh come on.” Charlie pouts. “You, my sad little repressed friend, are currently living out a real life fanfiction. Don’t tell me that you don’t appreciate that!” 

“I’d appreciate it more if it was going to lead to me getting laid any time in the future.” Sometimes Dean thinks that it would also be worth it to go up to Cas and plant a giant kiss on his face, if for no other reason than it would at the very least shut everyone up. Then he thinks about Cas’ likely reactions (fury, disbelief, hurt, homicide maybe in that order), and he immediately jettisons that idea. 

“Well, if getting laid is all you’re after, put on your tight pants and your sexy shirt and go for it.” 

“Ha. Nice try. Sorry, but I’d like to hide the fact that I was perving on my roommate.” 

The camera barely manages to catch the roll of Charlie’s eyes, but Dean can see the swift flash of white before the picture returns to normal. “Man, between listening to you and reading Emmanuel’s blog, I honestly don’t know which of you is worse. You two should really have a conversation. I’m serious. One afternoon of digging and I could find his IP address. You two could compare notes on how to best hide your longing looks or whatever else it is you do for fun when you’re trapped inside an apartment with your crush.” 

“First of all, if you can do all that, Miss Hacker Extraordinaire, what the hell are you doing working at an architectural firm? Secondly, you should be nicer to me. I’m a man in distress.” 

Suddenly prim and proper, Charlie’s posture becomes ramrod straight. “I have many side projects.” She gestures at her spacious apartment. “It’s how I keep myself and my woman in luxury.” Gilda shakes her head, but her smile turns the gesture into one of indulgence and affection instead of exasperation. “And I would probably be nicer if I hadn’t been subjected to the Dean and Cas show for the past two years. Honestly, the only time that it didn’t make me want to tear my hair out--” 

Charlie’s mini-rant comes to an abrupt end when Gilda shoves her elbow into her side, but the damage has already been done. Dean’s mind rushes firmly to the topic that Gilda was trying to avoid. The only time that he hasn’t been completely caught up on Cas was for the almost year that he and Lisa had dated. And even then…

“Yeah, well.” The foul mood that lurks just over Dean’s shoulder descends with sudden viciousness, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at Charlie. It’s not her fault, truly. There was no malice behind her words, and he can’t blame her for being frustrated. He’s frustrated with himself; he knows that he’s being stupid. It’s been two years since he started living with Cas. Two years of him stuck in a pointless crush, two years of repressing any hint that he’s even remotely attracted to Castiel, which in turn necessitated two years of him complaining, relentlessly and often, to his friends. 

No wonder they’re sick of him. Dean’s sick of himself. 

“Dean, really, I didn’t mean--” 

“Charlie, it’s fine. Seriously. Drop it.” Dean forces a sickly smile. From Charlie’s little grimace, he can deduce that the expression looks as painful as it feels. “Anyway, I called to say that your program’s working like a dream. When we get back, you might want to start patenting it out to other firms. If it works this well on my laptop, who knows how well it’ll work when it has the servers and heavy software to back it up?” 

Charlie nods, but her acknowledgement of her own skills is lackluster at best. Guilt mixes with irritation and the combination turns his stomach sour. At that moment, he wants nothing else but to escape this conversation. Dean mumbles an excuse of needing to go (where does he need to go? There’s nowhere, unless he wants to book himself another long bout of staring out the window like a Victorian war widow). Before he can hang up, Gilda asks to speak to him. 

“Charlie and I were thinking about having a Skype party--one group call with us, Sam and Jess, Benny and Andrea, Jo, and you. Cas if he wants. We can play games or something, whatever you guys want to do. We just miss seeing all of you.” 

“Yeah. Sounds like a good idea. Let me know.” 

Dean hangs up and slumps against the increasingly uncomfortable kitchen chair. He’s convinced his ass is squashing out the padding of the seat (between his relative inactivity and the sheer bulk of cooking he and Cas are doing these days, the ring of softness around his stomach has started to encroach on other territories), which means that his once plush dining set has turned into a torture device that must be endured. 

Dean will never say it aloud, but he misses his ergonomic chair in his cookie-cutter cubicle. He misses the hustle of the office and the thousands of conversations blending into a single dull roar. He misses the frustration of dealing with the copier. He never appreciated the simple pleasure that was sticking his head into someone else’s office for a quick question until it was taken away from him. 

Dean taps his fingers against the table. Discontent sits in his belly like a heavy stone and he can’t think of any way to alleviate it. He could always bother Cas, but even the prospect of witnessing Cas’ eyes squint into a glare falls flat. Even though it’s unfair, Dean can’t help but blame Charlie. Though she didn’t intend it, her words have kicked at a hornet’s nest of tangled emotions, ones that Dean usually tries his best to keep suppressed. 

He tries his best not to think about the disaster that was his relationship with Lisa. When he does, he just comes to the conclusion that he’s the one to blame for every problem. He knows that he idealized Lisa, built a sparkling pedestal and plopped her atop it for the whole world to see. But really, who could blame him? From the moment he met Lisa, Dean had a  _ feeling _ about her. She was  _ The One,  _ wrap it up and stick a ring on it, stop your angsting at the bar on single’s night, because you are Done. He’d reveled in that feeling, unaccustomed to something as simple as happiness in his daily routine. He quickly forgot how he’d been living his life (watch your roommate’s retreating back as he retreats to the two rooms allotted to him in your very large apartment, try and fail to find a way to solicit his company without sounding either too needy or like a jackass who just wants entertainment). When he was with Lisa, there was no shame in how he felt, no need to tuck any unsightly emotions away from polite company. With Lisa, every one of his emotions was pre-approved by society (except for the odd squirm whenever he caught Cas’ expression when Cas thought he wasn’t looking, and Dean could keep those moments to himself just fine). 

And for the most part, their relationship was good. He and Lisa would lie awake and talk through the dark hours of the night until the clock ticked over into morning again, their voices pitched quiet so that they wouldn’t disturb Cas (somehow they always ended up at his apartment; Dean assumed that it was because his place was bigger, had a better kitchen, and a washer and dryer in unit). They would tuck their heads close together and whisper about potential futures. They spun tales of houses and dropped tentative hints about children. Dean stroked over Lisa’s left ring finger and pictured taking Sam ring shopping until he found the perfect specimen. Dean knew what it would look like, down to the stones and delicate filigree around the band. 

He just never got around to buying it. 

Oh sure, he  _ thought _ about it. He spent hours picking out different customizations and drove Sam to distraction by emailing him every possible combination. It wasn’t until Sam, rather more snidely than the situation called for, snapped “Why don’t you just buy the damn thing then?” that Dean even realized that maybe there was a problem. 

Too stung to retort properly (and also wondering what truth lay behind Sam’s words), he’d scoffed, “Excuse me for only wanting the best. Some of us don’t feel like sliding the first thing that fell out of the cereal box onto a woman’s hand.” (He conveniently forgot that Sam saved up damn near four paychecks to pay for Jess’ ring.) Irritated and nursing a vague sense of unease, Dean had stormed off and gone home to lick his wounds. 

(Except his sulk hadn’t panned out. He’d gone back to the apartment, intent on watching something loud and violent in an attempt to clear his thoughts, but been almost immediately greeted with a forlorn, “Dean?” Following the call, he found Cas in his bathroom, dinky tack hammer in hand, standing next to a sink that was due to overflow at any moment. “Do you think you could help?” 

When confronted with Castiel Novak, Home Improvement Disaster, what else could Dean do but laugh and fetch his own, much superior tools from the closet? “Where’d you get that thing, a toy store?” he asked, nodding towards Cas’ inefficient hammer. He shoved Cas out of the way with a well-timed jab of his hips as he went to work on loosening the clog that Cas had somehow managed to create in his sink. 

“The sales associate assured me that it was suitable for all basic projects,” Cas grumbled. His grumpy irritation sparked all sorts of things in Dean that he wasn’t supposed to feel, so he hid his smile in his shoulder and went to work. After he loosened the clog, Cas insisted on doing something nice as a thank you, so Dean allowed himself to be lured from his plans to indulge in a shitty mood and into watching the Star Trek reboot, under the pretense of fixing Cas’ woefully finite pop culture knowledge. It wasn’t until he went to bed that Dean remembered that he was supposed to be pissed, and by then, it was too late to do anything other than fall asleep.)

The Engagement Ring Fiasco was logged and forgotten, with Dean never understanding the underlying problem. Lisa certainly never indicated that she was anything less than satisfied. Sometimes she would get a funny look in her eye when Dean talked about exactly what kind of kitchen he would like (he would need an induction range because otherwise it was too easy to get burned--the other day Cas had scorched himself on the electric cooktop because the idiot hadn’t realized that it was on), but she was happy to spend time with Jess and Sam, which in Dean’s eyes, was the real test of a relationship. Several of Dean’s exes had been unable or unwilling to understand that Sam wasn’t just his brother, he was  _ Sam,  _ and Dean could no easier think of cutting Sam out of his life than he could think of cutting out his lungs or stomach. Lisa understood their bond, understood that sometimes he didn’t need her, he needed Sam. Armed with that knowledge, was it Dean’s fault that he was preparing for wedded bliss? 

And bliss it had been, right up until the moment that it all fell apart. 

The night started out fine. He and Lisa were tucked away into their favorite corner booth of their favorite Italian restaurant. They’d discovered it one afternoon while they were both playing hooky from work: a tiny, 10 table establishment that featured a chef who periodically wandered out from the kitchen to rattle something off in Italian and then press more breadsticks upon them. Dean, who never turned down free breadsticks in his entire life, was feeling a little drunk from the beer and a lot stupid from the carbs, and was running his mouth when he should have been watching it. 

“Anyway, Cas says that he has this system worked out, so I guess we’ll have to see when we get back, I can get him to show it to you…” Dean stopped describing Cas’ frankly ingenious system of queuing up shows that Dean meant for him to watch when he realized that Lisa’s smile was oddly fixed. “Something wrong?” 

A dark tendril wrapped around his chest as an insidious voice whispered  _ This is it.  _

“Dean, can I ask you a question?” Lisa laughed weakly and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. She couldn’t hide the nervous way that her nails picked at the label of the bottle or how she couldn’t seem to meet his eyes. “And I’m not going to be mad either way that you answer, but I really would like the truth.” 

“Lisa, just ask.” 

“Ok.” Lisa looked at him then, her eyes calm and frank. She never blinked as she asked, “Are you in love with Cas?” 

Block by block, Dean’s world fell apart, until he stood waist-deep in ruins. 

“What?” Denial sprang immediately to his lips, though it tasted bitter as he spat it out. “Why would you think that?” 

This time when Lisa smiled, it just looked very sad. 

Nothing Dean said made any difference. Any protests or promises he offered up as proof of his devotion fell on deaf ears. After a while, Dean figured out that the more fervent his denials became, the more truthful Lisa’s claim sounded. 

“I’m not mad,” Lisa said. Her complacency infuriated Dean. Shouldn’t she be angry? Shouldn’t she be  _ something?  _ “I always figured that maybe there was something there, but I thought that we could get past it. But…” She sighed and took a sip of her beer, more for something to do with her hands than any real thirst. “For six months we’ve been talking about looking at houses, but you haven’t set up the first showing. You haven’t even found a real estate agent.” 

“I didn’t know that you wanted me to--”

“That’s not the point,” Lisa said, her voice oddly gentle. “If I had asked, you would have done it, but you would have done it because I asked.” Dean’s look of confusion prompted her to explain, “You wouldn’t have called an agent or set up a showing because you wanted it. You would have just been following orders. And that’s not what I want. I don’t want you to stay with me because you feel obligated or you think it’s what you’re supposed to do.” 

“I want to be with you,” Dean said. He reached out to grab Lisa’s hand. She didn’t pull away, but the feel of her slack, indifferent fingers in his was almost as bad. “Lisa. We’ve talked about this. I want a house. I want,” he swallowed convulsively, knowing that his future was disintegrating before his eyes, “I want kids. I want a family.” 

“Dean, I know.” Lisa squeezed his fingers once before she slipped her hand out of his grasp so smoothly that it took Dean a few seconds to realize she was gone. “I know you want those things. And I know that one day you’ll have them. But I’m not…” She shook her head. For a moment, a terrible sadness flashed across her face, before she blinked and it was gone. “I’m not going to be the one that you create those things with. I can’t stay with you just so we can tick off boxes together.” 

_ I refuse to be second best.  _ She never said the words, but the implication was clear. Every part of her pulled away from Dean until they were wholly separated by the narrow table that might as well have been a mile wide. 

“I’m really sorry. I wanted…” Lisa let the sentence trail off. Dean understood. It didn’t matter what she wanted. Not now, when she was preparing to walk out of his life forever. “I’m going now. I’ll pick up my stuff tomorrow while you’re at work. Cas will be at the apartment?” She asked the question, even though she already knew the answer. 

Dean agreed as a thick fog spread across his vision and seeped into his skin. He was numb. Nothing was left except a vague tingling sensation in the tips of his fingers. His stomach roiled, breadsticks sitting heavily at the pit of his belly. 

“I really hope that you get everything that you’re looking for.” Lisa’s hand rested gently on his cheek. Her touch already felt like a memory. When her hand left his skin, it left nothing behind other than a cold spot that faded almost as soon as it formed. Lisa started towards the door, but before she made it there, she turned around. Her eyes were kind (that’s what Dean remembers most about Lisa--not the truly awe inspiring positions they pretzeled themselves into, not her laugh, not the half-baked dreams that they conceived. He always remembers how very kind she was in that moment, when he’d done nothing to deserve it) and she sounded genuine when she said, “Hey Dean? Can I give you some advice?” 

Dean grunted and Lisa took that as permission. “I think that if you asked him, Cas would say yes. The way that he looks at you sometimes, when you’re not paying attention…” She shrugged, a rueful little smile crossing her face. “Just think about it, ok?”

She left. Ever the good soldier, Dean has since followed her last instructions. He’s thought about it. 

“Dean?” 

Cas’ low voice shakes him out of the memories. Dean curses, softly and viciously, as he tries to rearrange his face into something approaching normalcy, but who knows what Cas managed to see or how he’ll interpret it. The man seems to veer between utter ignorance and innate understanding when it comes to the mysteries of human emotion. On any given day, Dean never knows which side of the coin Cas will land on. 

“What’s wrong?” 

So it’s going to be one of those days, when Cas can pare him down to his bare bones with nothing more than a look. 

Dean swallows hard. He forces the same smile that he gave Charlie and Gilda earlier, the sort that hurts to form and hurts to watch. “It’s all good Cas. Just going over some work stuff.” 

“Uh-huh. Right.” Cas’ tone is so flat it’s two-dimensional. From the way that he leans against the wall, his arms folded over his chest, Dean can tell that he’s not buying what he’s selling. “Are you done with work for the day?” 

“Yeah.” He probably shouldn’t be, but there’s no way that he can concentrate on work now, not with this mess roiling in his brain. 

“Good.” Cas’ face is unreadable as he jerks his chin towards his office. “Come on then.” 

Dean follows. What else is there to do? When he reaches Cas’ office, he flops into his customary place on Cas’ chair. In just two short weeks, he’s become so familiar with this office that he could navigate it blindfolded, lay his hands on almost any object in darkness. 

Castiel settles into his desk chair and taps at a key on his laptop. Immediately, the small office is filled with the sound of a dozen voices chanting lowly, while violin strings scrape and wail. 

“Oh hell no.” Dean might have sunk low, but he still has standards. “Change it right now. We’re not going to listen to your weird chanty music.” 

Cas looks at him, his eyes narrowed. “It’s calming. If you’d give it a try--”

“Some things I ain’t gotta try to know that I’m just not going to like them.” 

“It’s supposed to help concentration--”

“It sounds like you’re trying to summon a demon into the apartment. And Cas, I gotta tell you, on top of everything else, dealing with demons would just be one thing too many. That’s the straw that broke the camel’s back.” 

Dean leans forward and commandeers Cas’ touchpad. His goal is to mute the music, but he catches sight of a long block of text. 

_ Quarantine or social distancing or physical distancing or whatever else you want to call it seems to have affected us all in different ways. For example-- _

That’s all Dean manages to read before Cas slams the lid of his laptop down, so quickly that he almost takes off Dean’s fingertips. The laptop closes with a gentle shush. Cas’ eyes, when they glances towards Dean, are wide and shocked, like he can’t believe his own actions. 

“It’s um...my next article,” Cas says. “There’s privacy issues involved since it involves names in the medical field. I need permission from the editor before I can release them.” 

Cas’ eyelids flutter in his single tell. Dean’s not sure exactly what Cas said that wasn’t truthful or what he’s trying to hide, but he knows that there’s more there than Cas is telling him. For whatever reason, Cas is lying to him. 

“All right,” Dean says. “Next time just tell me to mind my own business. I need these fingers.” He wiggles them in Cas’ general direction. Cas, for his part, looks less than impressed. Dean is just glad to see the panicked look fade from his eyes. 

Dean’s not going to press the issue. So Cas is keeping a secret. Dean is keeping a damn big secret from Cas. It would be hypocritical of him to demand full disclosure. If it were anything important, anything relevant to Dean in any way, Cas would tell him. Since Cas hasn’t talked about it, Dean has to assume that it’s not important. 

What is important to Dean is how Cas, even though he touted the different benefits of his music, unconsciously leaned to the side to allow Dean easy access to his computer. It matters that Cas came and found him when Dean’s spirits were low and he needed a friend. It matters that Cas continues to twist and bend to fit Dean into the jigsaw of his life. 

“What we need,” Dean says as he fishes his phone out of his back pocket, “is some real damn music.” He flips to one of his tried and true playlists and grins as the sweet melodies of  _ Whole Lotta Love  _ ring through Cas’ office. “Now. Tell me that this doesn’t help you concentrate.” 

Cas is trying hard for annoyance but he’s slipping. Dean hides a smile by ducking his head down towards his phone, which is the only reason that he catches the shift in Cas’ expression. It lasts only for a second, but Dean drinks in everything--the softness in Cas’ eyes, the gentle upwards curve of his lips, the warmth evident in every plane of his face. 

Lisa’s words come back to him.  _ The way he looks at you sometimes, when you’re not paying attention… _ This time instead of helpless despair or anger, the words give him a feeble sort of hope. 

Dean settles into Cas’ chair and thinks about it. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


**day seventeen**

  
  


Castiel sighs as he runs his fingers through his hair. It’s starting to bother him, the way that his hair curls and flops over the tips of his ears. It’s starting to sneak underneath the collar of his shirts and fall into his eyes. He’d scheduled an appointment for his hair, but that was when the world was normal. Now, with every personal grooming shop closed for at least thirty days, Castiel is stuck with an untamable mane. 

It’s foolish to become irritated by such a trivial matter, especially when he considers the larger world outside, but he can’t help it. He wants a damn haircut. 

Eventually his huffing catches Dean’s attention. Being Dean, he voices his concern brusquely. 

“The hell is your problem?” 

Castiel glances over at Dean, caught halfway through trying to push his hair away from his forehead. “Nothing,’ Castiel says. 

Dean must be bored. Possibly the sighs have sparked his temper, because he doesn’t leave the situation alone. “Well, you’re huffing and puffing like there’s three little pigs and a brick wall in front of you, so either eat your bacon and tell me what’s wrong, or shut up.” 

Castiel narrows his eyes. He’s aware that the constant toil and strain of isolation have been weighing on Dean. He’s noticed that Dean is quick to snap and is swiftly frustrated with minor inconveniences. He’s also noticed that Dean isn’t sleeping well. He’s going to bed later and waking up just before his arbitrary deadline of eight o’clock (though some days it’s close to nine before Dean drags himself out of bed). He’s also started taking hour long naps in the middle of the day. No doubt, Dean is struggling with the blow to his social life that social distancing has caused. 

Still, that’s no excuse to snap at Castiel. 

(As best he can, Castiel ignores the hurt curling in his chest, though the insidious questions still slither through his subconscious. Why isn’t he enough for Dean? Why can’t Dean be satisfied with their deepening friendship and multiplying rituals?)

“It’s my hair,” Castiel finally explodes. Once the truth is out in the open, it sounds even more ridiculous than it did in his head. There’s no walking it back however, so he continues. “It’s getting long and it’s getting itchy. I just want a damn haircut because it’s driving me crazy, but they’ve shut all the damn barber shops!” 

Dean’s mouth twitches. For one, wild moment, Castiel thinks that Dean might snap. Instead, a burst of involuntary laughter bursts out of him. It’s quickly followed by another, then another, until Dean is helplessly wheezing. 

“All this angsting is over your  _ hair _ ? Man, I know you’ve been talking to Jess for your article, but I didn’t realize that Sam was giving you beauty tips on the side.” 

Castiel frowns. While he can be thankful that he’s not going to be caught on the wrong side of Dean’s ire, he doesn’t much appreciate being laughed at. Dean seems to realize that, once he gets a good look at Castiel’s face, because he swallows his laughter until it’s just a few chuckles escaping. “I’m sorry Cas. I know it’s not funny, but if you could have just seen your face.” 

Another few giggles (it should be illegal for men over six feet tall to giggle) and Dean manages to get control over himself. “Look, if it’s that big of a deal, then I can do it.” At Castiel’s incredulous look, Dean shrugs. “I used to give Sam haircuts all the time when we were kids.” 

“If Sam’s hairstyle is your doing, then I think I’ll decline your offer.” 

“Now that’s not nice.” Dean’s smirk makes Castiel feel like maybe he’s not a failure at social interactions, like maybe he’s worthy of Dean’s interest. “I’m going to tell Sammy you were making fun of him.” 

“In the past day and a half you’ve made fun of your brother over ten times. Once, and I quote, because he ‘laughed weird’.” 

“How many times do I have to tell you? Actually doing the whole finger-quote thing is weird. Also, no one likes a tattle-tale. Anyway, if you were paying attention, then you’d notice that I said when Sam was a kid. All of those cute little elementary school pictures? That’s all me. All those pictures from high school where he’s a teenager and he’s ugly? Not my doing.” 

Castiel looks suspiciously at Dean. It’s not that he’s particularly vain about his hair. It’s hair; if it’s cut, even unfortunately, the situation will correct itself sooner or later. It’s that he doesn’t trust himself. Dean’s fingers, pushing through his hair, brushing up against the soft spot behind his ear, the nape of his neck? It’s astonishing, the intimacy held in a haircut, and Castiel was getting them from strangers all this time. 

Some of the arrogance bleeds out of Dean’s smile. “Look, I was just offering. If you don’t want to, that’s cool--”

“It’s fine.” Castiel’s decision is spurred not by rational thought, but instead the idea that he can’t bear to see the look of naked disappointment on Dean’s face. “But if you chop off one of my ears then I’m definitely not paying rent for at least two months.” 

\---

Within the span of five minutes, Castiel is seated on one of their kitchen chairs with one of his old sheets draped over his front to catch any stray hair. Dean flicks water at him to wet the tips of his hair and Castiel flinches when the cold droplets make their way down the back of his shirt. 

“So what are you going for here? Just a trim, or you want to go further and get a mohawk? You want me to try for a mullet? Or you want to go the full skinhead route?”

Dean is standing behind him and is therefore immune to Castiel’s glare.“Just trim it back to where it was before. You remember what it looked like?” 

Dean’s voice is oddly thick when he answers. “Yeah, Cas. I remember.” 

That’s all that Dean says for several long minutes, which is unfortunate. Castiel could sorely use the distraction of conversation. 

It’s every bit as painful as he predicted. Dean’s fingers are gentle as he runs his hands through Castiel’s hair, though he does tug at the strands in order to stretch them out to their full length. Every touch sends sparks flying across Castiel’s scalp. These sparks compile into a fire, until Castiel has to ruthlessly dig his teeth into the soft insides of his cheek to keep himself from letting out an incriminating noise. 

It just feels so  _ good. _

Not that Castiel likes to admit it, but it’s been a while since someone touched him like this (t _ wo years _ , a fatal part of his brain whispers at him,  _ it’s been two years because if you can’t have perfection then there’s no point in settling for anything less _ ). He’s forgotten how he missed the simple comfort of human touch--the warmth of a hand, the pressure of fingers, blunt nails scraping over his skin in furrows of sensation. 

If he could, then Castiel would happily lose himself in the tug and sweep of Dean’s fingers. However, every time that Dean’s fingers brush over the lobe of his ear or the side of his neck, he’s slammed back into the present. Dean’s fingers leave electricity in their wake until Castiel’s whole skin is sparking with sensation. 

He’s so busy keeping himself under control that he doesn’t notice when Dean asks him a question. It takes a sharp tweak of his hair to bring his attention crashing back to the present. 

“What?” Castiel snaps, using his irritation to cover up his small gasp. 

“I asked how short you want it.” Dean sounds amused at his lapse of attention. Good for him; Castiel is more concerned with making sure that he doesn’t pass out from heart palpitations. “I think that this is good, right here.” He runs a slow fingertip along the nape of Castiel’s neck, raising a line of goosebumps in his wake. He doesn’t relent until he reaches the hollow behind Castiel’s ear. His finger presses into the spot, a careful pressure before his touch disappears. 

Castiel has to struggle to avoid collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut. He’s slept with people who haven’t put this much effort into seduction. He’s thankful both that he’s seated and that the sheet draped over his front covers his groin. 

“Whatever you think,” Cas manages to say. Trying for levity he adds, “After all, you’ll be the only one seeing it for a while.” 

Dean hums as the cool edge of the scissors slides against the back of Castiel’s neck, replacing the scorching heat of Dean’s fingers. “I’m sure that Sam and Jess wouldn’t mind if you were to crash another Skype call.” His sure touch falters for just a second. The lapse is short enough to make Castiel wonder if it was just his imagination. When he speaks again, Dean’s voice is light, almost brittle. “You don’t have any hot Skype dates lined up?” 

There are unknowable rip tides and currents in Dean’s voice that stretch far beyond the surface and into the unseen elements below. Castiel, with his woeful inability to understand even the simplest of human interactions, has no idea how to respond. 

“Not to my knowledge,” is all that he can come up with, and even that paltry answer comes after a too long pause. He coughs to cover up the sudden tension which has crept into the room. “Besides, how could I ever fit them into my busy schedule?” 

Awkward as it is, his small joke clears the air. Dean chuckles and then returns to his job with renewed focus. Everything seems to be going well, until Dean slides around to his front. 

Castiel had thought that Dean’s fingers on his neck were the height of torture. He hadn’t considered Dean’s fingers brushing over his fringe, or the fact that Dean’s face would be close enough for him to start cataloguing each of his freckles. Worse than that are Dean’s eyes. Castiel feels himself tipping into the verdant green, even as he catalogues the soft flecks of gold in the irises. There’s a reason that he doesn’t allow himself to get this close to Dean; he can’t function when confronted with the truth of the man. 

Castiel hardly dares to breathe as Dean works on the locks of hair stubbornly curling above his forehead. Dean’s face is so close to his that all it would take is a small shift to bring their lips together. 

Once that thought takes root it proves impossible to dislodge. Castiel’s eyes are drawn to the full curve of Dean’s lower lip and the soft bow of his upper lip. When Dean flicks the tip of his tongue out against his lower lip, Castiel thinks that he might die. His whole existence narrows to the contours of Dean’s face--the harsh cheekbones, the strong jaw, the dusting of stubble along his cheeks and upper lip. 

“All right, I think we’re done.” 

Dean takes a step back to survey his handiwork. Castiel tries not to feel like he’s been ripped away from the sun. 

“You’ll have to take a trip to the bathroom and tell me what you think, but I think… You look good Cas.” 

Dean immediately turns around, leaving Castiel to stare at his back. The words hang over his head, ripe with unrealized consequences. Castiel wants to be able to pluck them down and turn their potential into action, but he doesn’t know how to move forward without stumbling. In the end, Castiel tugs the sheet away from his neck and makes his way to his bathroom. 

For all of his teasing, Castiel has to admit that Dean knows what he’s doing. The reflection in the mirror is the same as he’s looked at for years. He tries not to be disappointed in that fact, but he thought that he might look different. That maybe, by virtue of his touch and concern alone, Dean could make him into a new person. 

Castiel shakes his head. It’s foolish, and borderline unhealthy, to think such things. After all, he doesn’t want to be a new person; he wants Dean to value the person that he is. And he supposes that he should be thankful for small mercies. Dean does appreciate him. And if Castiel is upset that Dean’s appreciation is of him as a friend, then that’s his problem, not Dean’s. 

Thus bolstered, he makes his way out to the kitchen. Dean is already hard at work sweeping up the discarded locks of his hair. “You really were getting shaggy,” Dean smiles, shaking off the dust pan into the trash. 

Castiel would offer to help, but he knows that Dean will just politely reject his offer. Instead he jumps up onto the counter, ignoring Dean’s slight glare in his direction. “Savage,” Dean mutters as he walks past him to put the broom up. 

Castiel grins and forces any thoughts of unhappiness away. This is good enough for him--this kind of thoughtless comfort with each other, without the pressures of romantic entanglement. He can be happy with this. 

Dean walks back into the kitchen. A moue of displeasure crosses his face when he sees that Castiel has no intent of moving away from his chosen seat. “We make food there, you know. Where you’re putting your ass,” he clarifies, in case Cas didn’t understand his meaning. 

“I’m aware,” Cas answers mildly. Dean just rolls his eyes as he finishes his tidying touches on the kitchen. Cas has learned that for all Dean mocks Sam for being ‘bitchy’ and ‘girly’, Dean has quite a few prissy traits all his own. It’s what he loves--what he enjoys about him. 

Before he can stop himself, Castiel reaches out and tugs at Dean’s shirt sleeve. Dean stops, one eyebrow creeping curiously up his forehead. “Thank you.” It’s nowhere close to what Castiel wants to say, but it’s all that’s appropriate. 

“No problem.” Dean’s easy smile usually acts as a balm, but today it feels oddly impersonal, especially after he was the epicenter of Dean’s concentrated attention. 

“I mean it.” He still hasn’t let go of Dean’s flannel shirt, the fabric smooth and soft in his hand. “If it weren’t for you, I don’t think that I’d be handling any of this as well as I am.” He’s getting into dangerous territory now; his words cut too close to the quick and heart of the matter, but he can’t stop. “There’s no one else that I’d rather be quarantined with than you.” 

The sudden flush that sweeps across Dean’s cheeks is a thing of beauty. His eyes, turned brighter by the pink covering his cheeks, dart down to the ground, while his teeth worry at his lower lip. He rubs at the back of his neck as a hesitant, bumbling laugh fills the kitchen. Castiel thinks that he hears a muffled, “Shit, Cas,” fall from his lips, but he might just be imagining things. 

“You too, you know?” When he meets Castiel’s eyes Dean’s face is oddly open and vulnerable. It makes him look younger and a sweet ache bursts in Castiel’s chest at the sight. “I mean… This whole thing sucks balls, but I’m glad that you’re here with me.” 

Castiel sees the hug coming. Dean telegraphs perfectly clearly with his body language what’s about to happen (unlike the kiss of almost two weeks ago that still haunts his dreams with the ghost of barely there pressure and the hint of stubble and warmth that fades before he can ever really appreciate it). Castiel doesn’t move, but he’s still not prepared for Dean’s arms wrapping around his shoulders. 

Dean pulls Castiel into him, before he tucks his face into Castiel’s shoulder. It’s not like the swift hugs that he’s seen Dean give to Sam and Benny, those short, almost violent affairs that conclude with a slap on the back designed to paralyze or at the very least injure the other party. There’s warmth and care in Dean’s embrace, and even though Castiel has never quite mastered the art of hugging, his hands come up to awkwardly rest against Dean’s back. 

He and Dean stay like that, long enough to make Castiel question the average length of a hug, before they separate. Dean’s face is still a little flushed, but that’s understandable. Castiel understands that showing affection is difficult, especially for men of Dean’s caliber and reputation. He doesn’t say anything to make the situation more awkward for Dean, and eventually Dean turns around to inspect the contents of the fridge. 

“What do you say to pork chops tonight?” Dean asks. Castiel answers and tries to convince himself that this is fine, that this is all he wants. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	6. human touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn’t surprise Dean that he and Cas have a fight.
> 
> It surprises him that it takes them almost three weeks to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait for this chapter. All I can say is that it fought me tooth and nail coming out (I'm still not 100% satisfied with it, but what can you do?)
> 
> We're nearing the end folks! Your patience will be rewarded!

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


**day eighteen**

Castiel sits in his office and glares at the blank document in front of him. He can’t concentrate and he’s going to blame that, in part, on Dean. 

For so long he and Dean have kept a careful distance from each other, only touching when absolutely necessary. They could be in the same room yet still preserve the necessary nine inches of space between them. It was enough for Castiel’s sanity and Dean’s comfort, and he thought that they’d both been satisfied with the unspoken agreement. 

(He’d been reckless, the first few weeks that he’d lived with Dean. Drawn into the other man like a moth to the flame, Castiel had wandered too close. He hadn’t realized it until Dean coughed, discomfort bristling through his posture like a cat with its hair raised in warning. “Um, Cas?” A prickly admonition was in the question. “Personal space?” Castiel had taken the rebuke to heart.)

Under the pressures of quarantine, those boundaries began to disintegrate. Castiel noticed Dean’s tactile nature asserting itself in little brushes, small, unavoidable touches that could be easily forgotten. Those gestures moved into larger ones (the kiss Dean laid against his temple still looms heavily in Castiel’s mind) that became more difficult to dismiss. Yesterday, however, seems to have demolished every barrier, ushering Castiel into uncharted territory. When Castiel goes to make his morning coffee, Dean is there next to him, so close that their elbows and hips knock together in the confined space. After a quick breakfast, Dean takes Castiel’s plate. Their fingers brush together and neither of them pulls away. At lunch, Dean gets up first and somehow, his hand ends up brushing the back of Castiel’s neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Even in the safety of his office, Castiel can’t stop thinking about each time Dean’s fingers touched his skin; his nerves tingle with the memory. He thinks that if he were to look at his skin, then he would see each place of contact burned red with the echo of it. 

As soon as he sat down to work, Castiel discovered the price of his impulsivity: all creativity seems to have fled his brain. The cursor seems to be mocking him with each blink in and out of existence. At this rate, he’s not going to post any blog entry today, let alone post a  _ good _ entry. The trick to a good blog post, he’s discovered, is to imbue it with enough details to paint a clear picture while maintaining enough ambiguity to make it relatable. There’s also the struggle of making his writing anonymous to prevent anyone connecting Castiel Novak to poor, hapless Emmanuel. 

(Gabriel managed to connect the dots, but he’s Gabriel. Castiel isn’t convinced his brother doesn’t have some kind of magical powers only used for ill. Hopefully mere mortals will find the mystery somewhat harder to unravel.)

Castiel looks at the meager lines of his blog post. It’s already been a day and a half since his last post and the comments are changing from positive (if a little explicit--Castiel has to wince at how many times he’s been told to  _ bend his roommate over and fuck that ass _ or some variation thereof), to more barbed comments. 

_ You need to stop whining and start doing something _

_ Either tell your roommate how you feel or stfu about it _

_ Stop being a pussy _

Castiel navigates out of the comment section (how many times has Gabriel warned him away from the comments section?) and instead stares at the almost blank post. 

_ Quarantine or social distancing or physical distancing or whatever else you want to call it seems to have affected us all in different ways. For example-- _

He hasn't added anything new in almost twenty-four hours. All words have fled, leaving him with nothing but an endless repetition of circus music in the hollow confines of his skull. He doesn’t know how to keep the interest of thousands of readers, much less how to make his roommate want him. He aggressively plumbs his brain for possibilities, but comes up empty every time. There’s just a cool, blank slate where his creativity used to exist. 

_ Cassie darling, never fall in love with a straight boy.  _ That had been Balthazar, his college roommate’s advice to him, back when Castiel was beginning to stick toes out of the closet.  _ Trust me, they’re never worth it, no matter how delicious they might look.  _ Castiel carried that little bit of wisdom around with him, as well as the memory of several ill-fated encounters in bars from men who were unflattered by his interest. 

Castiel had learned from those encounters. He knew now to never make the first move, as well as how to tilt his head in open invitation for the interested. He practiced the art of not giving offense and becoming the pursued instead of the pursuer. And for most of his adult life, those methods have worked. Perhaps they haven’t led to everlasting happiness, but who in this life is ever really happy? 

Balthazar was right on one account at least. Castiel never should have fallen in love with a straight man. 

With a low huff of irritation, Castiel slaps his laptop shut. Today is going to be another dead end, writing wise. He can’t afford many more; he’s already losing subscribers. If his blog stays inactive for too long, then he’ll start losing sponsors as well as subscribers. 

“Goddammit,” Castiel mutters, before he walks out to the kitchen. He’s neither hungry nor thirsty, but a change of scenery might help with the circles that his mind is intent upon running. However, the kitchen holds little interest for him at the moment, not when Dean is only a few short feet away. 

Dean’s head is bent low over a sheaf of papers, all of which are covered with complicated drawings and equations. Castiel steps around the table to peer over Dean’s shoulder. Dean, his attention consumed by the papers in front of him, doesn’t acknowledge him. Castiel recoils when he gets a better look at the diagrams, all accompanied by their own equations and notations. In his opinion, numbers and letters were next meant to coexist, but somehow Dean manages to turn these separate elements into buildings. 

“That looks...unpleasant.” 

“It is unpleasant.” Dean grunts and runs a hand through his hair. “This shit isn’t balancing out.” 

Castiel braces a hand on the edge of the table as he leans over Dean’s shoulder to get a better look. If the equations were perplexing from a distance then they’re dizzying up close. “I’m afraid I can’t be of any help. My mathematical skills end right around knowing how to calculate a twenty percent tip.” 

A shadow of cheer hides in Dean’s voice. “Thanks for the thought.” His hand falls from his hair to land heavily on the table. The cheer disappears from Dean’s voice, leaving it bleak and hard as he says, “None of this matters anyway; it’s not like this project is going to be built anytime soon.” 

Castiel doesn’t know what to say. It’s true most of Dean’s work won’t see fruition for quite some time. It must be beyond frustrating to spend hours working on projects that are doomed to languish in the doldrums of quarantine. 

“Well, I suppose you could always stop working on it, if it doesn’t matter.” 

Dean’s laugh starts out weak but gains strength towards the end. “That sounds pretty good, but I do still need to give them a reason why they should pay me. The agreement was I keep working and they keep sending a paycheck.” 

“You could always just fudge the numbers. Make something up and see if anyone notices.” 

The rich sound of Dean’s laughter fills the air. Castiel smiles in response. He’s so pleased by his ability to lift Dean’s mood that he doesn’t notice Dean’s fingers inching towards his hand. It’s not until Dean’s fingers, warm and strong, curl around his wrist that Castiel realizes his predicament. By then, it’s too late for him to pull away. Instead, he remains still, and tries to ignore Dean’s thumb pressing over the small bumps of his veins. 

“Just my luck, I would forget to go back and correct the numbers and then the firm would spend all their time and money on a building with the structural integrity of a matchstick house. Wouldn’t be my first time fucking up.” 

With a quick, convulsive movement, Castiel yanks his wrist out of Dean’s loose grasp. Dean flinches and makes no attempt to reach out again. Castiel hates to lose that connection, but he needs clarity of thought. Unfortunately, his thought processes are the first casualty in Dean’s presence. 

“You’re good at your job.” Castiel makes sure to emphasize each word. He might do too good of a job; the words come out more aggressively than Castiel intends. Dean glances over his shoulder with an expression shifting between confusion and worry. “You wouldn’t make a mistake like that,” Castiel clarifies. “And I’ve seen the buildings that you’ve designed. They’re...they’re very good,” he finishes lamely. 

Dean relaxes and rolls his eyes in a gesture that Castiel catalogues as fond instead of irritated. “It was just a joke, Cas. But thanks for the compliment.” 

This time, when their eyes meet, there’s a strange tension in the air. Castiel’s heart quickens at the warmth in Dean’s eyes and the hesitant smile creeping across his face. Something hot crowds through Castiel’s chest and works its way up the back of his throat. It feels like the anticipation of Christmas morning and summer break was rolled into one moment that’s now dangling over a precipice. 

Dean’s hand rests on the table. Castiel reaches out until his fingers rest overtop of it. 

It doesn’t relieve the pressure in Castiel’s chest. In fact, it only makes it worse. Now he has to deal with the heat of Dean’s skin, along with the boyish smile overtaking his features. “Better be careful Cas,” Dean murmurs. “There’s a pandemic going on. Not supposed to touch hands.” 

Castiel’s stomach performs a series of backflips that would be impressive if they were happening to someone else. He almost wants Dean to jerk away or toss his hand off and bluster something vaguely insulting that he only mitigates with an excess of charm. None of that happens. Instead, Dean remains at the table, soft and oddly vulnerable, like Castiel has managed to scrape under his layers to reveal his tender underbelly. 

“Well, if either one of us has anything, then it’s not going to be long before the other has it as well.”

He doesn’t mean for his gaze to drop to Dean’s lips, honestly he doesn’t. But drop it does, and then Castiel is subjected to the sight of Dean’s tongue sweeping over the flesh of his bottom lip. That by itself would be devastating, except then Dean glances up at him through a thick curtain of dark eyelashes. Devastating turns to apocalyptic and Castiel’s knees weaken as Dean refuses to drop his gaze. 

Castiel might be ignorant to most of the intricacies of human behavior, but even he can recognize the implications of that gesture. Heterosexual though Dean might be, there’s some part of him that’s interested. Far from triumphant, however, Castiel can only feel a cringing dread. 

The rules by which he’s governed his life are breaking, one by one. Their loss leaves Castiel unmoored. He tries to hold fast to his common sense but the light from Dean’s eyes burns everything away. In that light, it would be all too easy for Castiel to burn as well, until only ash and dust remain. Dean wouldn’t willingly hurt him, but he’s only offering a casual interest, and Castiel knows that would destroy him. The problem is, of course, that Castiel finds himself caring less and less. 

Dean’s skin is warm underneath his fingertips. Castiel wants more than this small connection; he wants to feel all of Dean, wants to run his hands up the soft hair of his legs, wants to feel the rough stubble of his cheek. He’s careening out of control with nothing to keep him tethered. 

In the end, it’s Dean who ends the moment. He doesn’t mean to, but when he tries to twist around to face Castiel, a quick flash of pain crosses his face. A series of small cracks and pops sounds as Dean’s spine tries to realign. “Jesus,” Dean sighs, reaching over one shoulder to rub at his back. “I really miss my desk chair. Seven hours is too fucking long to spend in this fucking torture device.” He rubs at his back again. “At this point, I’m so damn tense you couldn’t pull a fucking needle out of me.” 

Castiel stares at the expanse of Dean’s back. He’s drawn to Dean’s fingers pushing in at his own muscles, how Dean’s shirt bunches up around those points of contact. He wants to look away, same as he wants to close his ears to Dean’s small grunts of discomfort, but he’s fixated. A moth to light, he’s drawn closer in until he’s helplessly caught in Dean’s orbit. 

This is why Balthazar warned him against falling for straight boys. Castiel always gets too invested; Castiel loses himself in someone who can’t possibly return his devotion. With a single look, those curious boys had taken his measure. They’d assumed, correctly, that he would be willing to be their experiment. They’d kissed and they’d fucked, and at the end of the night, they walked out the door and Castiel was left alone.

Castiel thought that he’d learned from his mistakes but, as he reaches out to rest his hands lightly on Dean’s shoulders, he realizes that he’s still the same disaster. 

Dean’s shoulders jerk when Castiel presses his thumb into stiff muscle. Dean’s first instinct is to hunch into himself like a turtle before he forces himself upright. Castiel would have thought it impossible, but somehow Dean is tenser. His ramrod straight posture screams discomfort. 

“Uh, Cas? What are you trying to do there, buddy?” 

Dean’s carefully even tone holds neither approval nor rejection. It’s impossible to read and Castiel is left to navigate the suddenly turbulent waters without any roadmap. Castiel doesn’t remove his hands, though he does soften his touch. 

“Do you not want? I took a class.” 

(He did take a massage therapy class, back when his father’s death was a recent wound and he was drifting through the world with no clear idea as to his future. While he nixed that idea for a career, the lessons, as well as Gabriel’s teasing, have stuck with him.)

“Shit. You would have.” Too many emotions layer Dean’s voice for Castiel to understand, but Dean’s not acting as though he’s offended. He’s certainly not acting like he wants to put his fist into Castiel’s face. “All right. Do your laying on of hands or whatever.” 

Dean’s words might be flippant, but when Cas presses his thumbs into the muscle at the base of Dean’s neck, he finds that Dean is about as pliant as a block of wood. An inane, “You’re very tense,” slips out of Castiel’s mouth and he could kick himself for the unnecessary observation. 

Dean’s chuckle sounds strangled. “No fucking shit,” he says, though he makes the token gesture of dropping his shoulders. 

For two years, Castiel has been dreaming of the moment where he gets to put his hands on Dean Winchester. It’s a shame, after all the build-up, he can’t enjoy it. His nerves buzz underneath his skin, leaving him feeling as though he’s suffering from electric shock. His extremities turn numb and he can’t savor the wrinkle of Dean’s shirt or the shift of his skin. His mind is stupid and slow, like he’s just downed an entire bottle of gin. It takes all of his remaining brain cells to force his hands to move in prescribed patterns. 

Dean hisses when Castiel’s fingers push into a large knot of tension. “Sorry,” Castiel whispers. He backs off of the spot with direct pressure and instead pushes the hell of his hand into the tightly corded muscle. 

An unholy, sinful noise rumbles out of Dean and travels straight to Castiel’s dick. “Jesus, Cas,” Dean rasps, whether in praise of censure remains unclear. Either way, it sends Castiel’s already hazy brain into a tailspin. 

This won’t solve anything. Feeling Dean’s muscles shift and relax under his touch, hearing his rough breaths--it’s all just another way to torture himself.  _ Don’t fall in love with straight boys.  _ Not even Dean’s rough  _ thanks Cas _ can make him feel better. 

Castiel already broke the cardinal rule. Now, all that’s left is for Dean Winchester to take whichever pieces of him that he deems desirable, and leave the rest. 

It’s certainly nothing that Castiel hasn’t gone through before. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

**day twenty**

  
  


It doesn’t surprise Dean that he and Cas have a fight.

It surprises him that it takes them almost three weeks to do it. 

Sam has told him, repeatedly, though fights ranging in topic from who ate the last bag of chips to who Dad hated more, that he’s not an easy man to live with. Dean knows this. In two years of living together, he and Castiel have had their fair share of spats. It’s typical roommate bickering. Cas has a nasty habit of leaving his wet laundry in the washer, while Dean likes to watch loud action movies without any regard for who else might be trying to work in the apartment. Typical, mundane roommate fights. They never fight about anything serious because they manage to steer themselves away from that cliff edge. Plus, with the distractions of work, friends, and dating, Dean was always able to skirt away from a situation with Cas that looked like it was getting too serious. 

Three weeks of forced proximity, however, are starting to take their toll. 

From the moment he stubs his toe on the way to the shower, Dean knows it’s going to be a bad day. He tries to shake the feeling away, but breakfast doesn’t bring any better news. They’ve run out of the good coffee grounds, leaving only the substandard fare that Dean bought once as an emergency. Bad coffee makes Dean grumpy and Cas homicidal, and with that, the mood for the rest of the day is set. 

While Cas disappears for an obligatory hour or so, Dean pretends to work. He’s too frustrated and irritated to make sense of the numbers spinning in front of him. He can’t concentrate, not while this restless  _ thing  _ is crawling underneath his skin. After about an hour, Cas reappears. From the sulky look on his face, Dean can make a guess that he’s been just about as successful in his work endeavours. Cas makes himself another cup of coffee, moving with halted, jerky motions. The dark looks he tosses over his shoulder at Dean say plainly that he’s spoiling for a fight just as badly as Dean.

Dean knows exactly how to avoid this situation. Any other time, Dean would make an excuse and a quick exit to Charlie’s or Sam’s and leave Cas alone to stew for a few hours until they both got this feeling out of their system. But quarantine leaves them with no escape, so they’re both stuck in a pressure cooker of frustration and irritation with only each other as their outlet. Dean doesn’t want this fight, but at the same time, he longs for something to break the monotony of the day. 

It starts with Dean’s snide comment about how Castiel could put his dishes in the dishwasher instead of leaving them in the sink. Castiel mutters a pithy retort suggesting exactly where Dean can put his dishes. And it goes from there. 

By the afternoon they’re camped on opposite sides of the apartment in a tense detente. Castiel has insulted, by turns, Dean’s wardrobe, his taste in music, as well as his choices of menu. Dean has responded with abuse towards Castiel’s own taste in music, his slovenly habits, and his sleep cycle. 

It seems like an eternity ago that Castiel’s fingers were massaging away the knots and tension from his back. Dean tries to cast his mind back to that afternoon and recapture the bliss pouring molten gold through his veins. He has to struggle to be irritated with Cas when his back still remembers the strength of those hands as they worked over him. It’s harder still when his imagination is a rampant thing that can all too easily envision how Cas’ hands would feel as they moved over different parts of his body. If he’d been asked before that massage, Dean would have assumed that if he ever did manage the miracle of getting Cas into bed, that Cas would be slightly hesitant, maybe even unsure of himself. But after feeling the surety of Cas’ hands as they moved over his shoulders and down his back, Dean had to revise that opinion, in favor of another one. Now it’s painfully easy to imagine Cas flipping him on his back, those hands spreading his legs apart, those hands traveling up the length of his torso, one of those strong, elegant fingers shoved into his mouth--

Right. He’s supposed to be pissed at Cas. 

Once he recalls that simple fact, anger comes easier. After all, you don’t give a man a massage and then walk away, ignore him for a day, and come out with a snappy (and anatomically impossible) critique about best locations for his head. 

Dean walks over to the record player. He selects one of his Metallica records, mostly because he knows that Cas dislikes them. The pounding bass of  _ Enter Sandman  _ fills the room, and Dean turns up the volume, just because it’s a good song. 

Maybe just a little bit to annoy Cas. 

The sound of Cas slamming his palms against the kitchen island echoes to the living room. “Can you turn that down please?” Dean doesn’t even have to look to know his words are spoken through gritted teeth. “I can’t concentrate.” 

Dean looks back over his shoulder. His face shifts into the ‘older brother’ sneer that still manages to push every one of Sam’s buttons. Apparently it works on Cas as well, judging how his upper lip curls. “Well, you could just go into your office. You know, where you’re supposed to work? If you turn up some of your weird chanting music, then you won’t even notice.” 

“It would be nice if I didn’t have to exile myself to get work done.” Dean doesn’t falter or blink and watches Cas’ annoyance reach epic heights. “It would be nice,” Cas continues, the words bitten off into individual pieces of ire, “if my roommate were, for once, to show some courtesy.” 

Castiel’s acerbic tone sparks something in Dean, and the dark, broken part of him opens its jaws wide. “Well, it would be nice to not have my roommate breathing down my fucking neck for once!” 

The second the words leave his mouth, Dean wants to take them back, but it’s too late. They hang like miniature nuclear bombs before they plummet. Each creates its own explosion of spite, leaving the space between them a minefield of hurt and regret. Cas’ expression falters, flashing from indignation to hurt. Apologies crowd at Dean’s brain and he’s ready to release them all, but then Cas’ mouth flattens into a thin line as his face smooths into a blank, marble, mask. He straightens, steel bleeding into his posture until he’s the picture of indifferent dignity. 

“Ok then. If that’s how you feel.” 

Cas’ steps are steady and measured as he walks out of the kitchen and down the hallway towards his room. Dean watches his retreating figure and thinks of all the entreaties he could make, all the ways he could ask Cas to stay. He says none of them. Dean stays in the living room, the victor of their fight, but he can’t help feeling like he’s lost something vital. 

The soft sound of Cas’ door closing echoes through the apartment, louder even than the blaring record next to him. Bereft of the adrenaline of the fight, Dean collapses onto the couch. He doesn’t bother to stop the record; to do that would be as good as admitting that he only put it on to spark a fight with Cas. He can only stare as the record continues its circular journey; his thoughts run in a similar pattern. Like every time he instigated a fight with Sam, victory sits hollow and bitter in his stomach. Instead of getting to bask in Cas’ company, he’s alone, listening to a record which only irritates him the longer it plays. 

He wants to be out of this apartment. Being cooped up with Cas for an indeterminate length of time is fucking both of them up. The rules are changing,  _ they’re  _ changing, becoming closer and more distant at the same time. The whole damn thing’s spinning out of control--his hands pushing through Cas’ hair, his lips pressed to Cas’ temple, Cas’ hands working over his muscles, Cas pressed so close against his back he can feel the heat of him. 

And now Cas is locked away in his room and Dean’s here, on the couch. He’s alone, which is unsurprising. Alone is exactly how he expected to end if he started anything with Cas. He knows there’s nothing attractive about self-pity, but he can’t help indulging in it as he rolls onto his side and stares at the blank TV screen. 

Dean knows he’s broken in some inexplicable, fundamental, way. Something in him makes him snap and snarl at his nearest and dearest, something refuses to allow him comfort or friendship. He remembers his conversation with Charlie a few days ago, and how she hasn’t called or texted him since, and burrows deeper into the plush cushions. 

It’s just for a few minutes, he tells himself as his eyes close. Just a few minutes and he’ll get up and start cleaning. Maybe he’ll make burgers as a way of apologizing. Just a few minutes on the couch and then he’ll get up. 

\---

The sound of drawers opening wakes Dean. It takes him a moment to flip through his memories before he deduces he’s on the couch instead of his bed. It takes him another moment to remember exactly why he’s on the couch. The afternoon’s events, including what he said to Cas, slam back into his head, along with the residual guilt. 

He opens his eyes. Gauging by the length of the shadows working through the living room, he can put the time somewhere in the late afternoon or early evening. Small dust motes dance in the sunbeams, turning the mundane living room into something almost magical. Dean watches them spin as he listens to Cas working in the kitchen. 

He’s too much of a coward to talk to him yet. 

It’s difficult to figure out what Cas is doing from sound alone, especially when Cas likes to play fast and loose with the rules of food prep. From the sounds of it, he’s making a sandwich, which is good, as sandwich making generally leads to fewer messes and accidents (though he supposes that Cas could always manage to slice off the tip of his thumb). There is one moment where Cas curses quietly, but that’s followed by the sound of water running and the rip of paper towels, so Dean assumes that Cas is just cleaning up a spill. 

Everything in him wants to go apologize, but he doesn’t know how he would keep his apology from disintegrating into a sloppy confession.  _ Sorry I snapped at you earlier, it’s just that I’m the worst and you’re wonderful and I want you so badly that sometimes I lie awake and imagine exactly how you would fit into my arms but I also manage to destroy everything I’ve ever touched so it’s probably better for the both of us if we just stay friends. Hey, you want any help with that sandwich?  _

Dean cringes at the possibility. 

The final drawer closes and Dean swallows. He has to say something now before Cas retreats back to his room, but what? The decision is taken out of his hands when he hears the footsteps approaching the living room. 

Dean makes a snap decision and takes the coward’s way out. He closes his eyes and listens as Cas approaches the couch. He focuses on breathing deep and even and making his face as expressionless as possible. As embarrassing as it would be for Cas to discover Dean was awake and listening to him go through the motions of making a snack, it would be devastating now for Cas to figure out he’s faking sleep. 

Dean waits, his every molecule screaming in anticipation, as Cas’ shadow falls over him. 

He would know what to expect if it were Sam. Sam would either set off a blow horn right in his ear or eliminate the middleman entirely and shove Dean off the couch with brute force alone. Either way, his ass would be introduced to the floor in the most ignominious possible method. Sam would laugh at him and call him some juvenile name, Dean would respond with a much wittier insult and the fight would be over, easy as that. 

Somehow, he doesn’t think Cas is going to resort to those methods. 

Cas breaks the silence with a sigh that comes straight from the diaphragm. “Oh Dean.” Cas’ shadow shifts. He’s close enough that if Dean twitched his hand just a little bit, he could brush against Cas’ leg. Cas doesn’t do anything and Dean’s skin crawls under the weight of his eyes. Still, he focuses on breathing slow and steady even as his imagination runs amuck--this is it, Cas does favor the Sam approach of problem solving--

Soft fabric drags over his body and warmth descends on his shoulders. Cas tugs at the throw until the soft material is nestled comfortably under Dean’s chin. Dean hadn’t even realized he was cold. 

“Idiot,” Cas finally says. Normally Dean would bristle at the insult, but Cas puts so much affection into the word that all he can do is lay there bleeding from a wound that he received when he looked into Cas’ eyes for the first time. 

Dean maintains the subterfuge of slumber, remembering to breathe evenly. When Cas’ knuckles brush against his temple, he has to struggle to maintain his composure. The achingly tender touch opens up a gaping chasm of yearning in Dean’s chest. He wants nothing more than to take Cas’ hand and tug him down to the couch, to wrap his arms and legs around Cas and promise he’s there, he’ll never Cas go--

Cas sighs again, but the sound comes out wistful. The tips of his fingers ruffle through Dean’s hair in a whisper soft caress. “I wish,” he begins, before he trails off to nothing. 

Dean grits his teeth while he still tries to maintain the lie of a blank face. Cas wishes what?  _ What?  _ It takes every bit of his self-control to not jump up and shake the answers out of Cas. 

He holds his breath, deep and even breathing be damned, when Cas drags his knuckles down from his knuckles to his cheek. He lingers there, on Dean’s scruffy five o’clock shadow. The longer Cas’ fingers rest on his skin, the more sanity Dean feels slipping away. The urge is there, to butt into Cas’ touch, to tilt his head enough to brush his lips against Cas’ hands. At least then it would all be done, one way or the other. 

“I guess I’ll wake you up in a few hours if you’re not up by then,” Cas tells him. His touch drifts through Dean’s hair before he pulls away. Both his footsteps and shadows recede as he heads back towards his side of the apartment. Dean holds his breath until he hears the soft snick of Cas’ office closing. Only then does he release all the built up tension in his body in a single, long sigh. 

He pulls the blanket tighter around his body, clinging to the softness and heat of it, even as his mind starts to fit the pieces together. For so long, he’s operated under the assumption that Cas was simply uninterested. That’s been the star by which Dean has set his compass and it’s served him fairly well. 

The past few days have knocked the cosmos out of alignment. Between the massage and the fight, he can’t deny the small stirrings of doubt. Maybe Cas is interested. Maybe Cas is just bored. Maybe Dean’s just gotten to the point of isolation when he’s projecting his own longing onto an oblivious Cas. 

He runs through the possibilities until he’s dizzy. Of course, the easiest thing to do would be to pick himself up, knock on Cas’ office door, and ask the question.  _ Hey Cas, I was thinking about making burgers for dinner to make up for being an asshole this afternoon, and hey, while I’m here I was wondering do you like ‘like’ me? Or just as a friend? Would you be down to bone once in a while?  _

Communication has never been a strength of his. And if he’s just reading into Cas’ actions, if he’s wanting something so badly he’s forcing connections where none exist, what then? He reveals his whole self to Cas to be told  _ thanks but no thanks?  _ He knows Cas wouldn’t be unnecessarily cruel about it, but to be told that his crush is pointless...Dean would rather languish in uncertainty rather than be rejected. 

But on the other hand… If it were possible to have his cake and eat it too… 

Dean waits an acceptable length of time, running through possibilities, until his empty stomach rumbles, reminding him that he skipped lunch. He makes his way to the kitchen, where he spreads beef and seasonings across the counter. Once the first burger makes its way to the grill, he goes to Cas’ office. 

His tentative knock is answered by a “Yes?” so carefully blank that Dean knows it had to be practiced. 

He opens the door. Cas has his back towards him and his fingers are flying away at his keyboard. “Hey,” Dean says, letting himself into the room. “I’m making burgers for dinner, if you want them.” 

“You sure that I wouldn’t be in your way? I wouldn’t be breathing down your neck?” 

Dean winces. He deserved that. “That was a dick thing to say. I didn’t mean it. I just… I’m frustrated you know? I’m tired of being here--not with you,” he hastens to say, when he realizes just how his words might be taken. “Work sucks and it’s pointless and I snapped and you didn’t deserve it.” 

Cas finally turns around. The look in his eyes nearly undoes Dean. It’s as soft as the blanket that Cas tugged over his body, as warm as the afternoon sun coming through the windows. Dean could happily fall into those eyes and never try to escape. 

“You’re an asshole,” Cas tells him. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when Dean doesn’t deny it. “And you’re going to make breakfast tomorrow to make it up to me.” 

Dean’s smile echoes Cas’ as it spreads across his face. “Pancakes or waffles?” 

  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*


	7. adversity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once in the store, Dean ignores exhortations to shop quickly and instead begins examining every piece of meat in the store. How he can find differences between two essentially identical packs of chicken thighs, Castiel doesn’t know, but there he is. 
> 
> This is the man that he’s chosen to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've left a comment or kudo on this fic, bless you. <3

*~*~*~*~*~*

**day twenty-one**

  
  


“We need to go grocery shopping,” Dean tells him that morning, so grocery shopping Castiel goes. 

Prior to quarantine, the significant drop in Castiel’s grocery shopping was one of the many perks of living with Dean. Dean seemed more than happy spending an hour or more in the store, so if Castiel slipped him a short list of what he needed, Dean usually didn’t have a problem picking it up. But now, with the advent of social distancing, Dean has apparently decided that grocery shopping is a team sport. 

“You don’t need me,” Castiel tries to protest, but Dean is a cyclone that sweeps up everything, including Castiel, in his path. “In fact, it’ll be safer if I just stay here, less people out and about…” Dean just claps a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and steers him towards the apartment door. Castiel keeps protesting all the way out the door, but it’s half-hearted, resigned to his fate. Masks in hand, they head down the stairs, to the parking garage of the building. 

There’s no question which car they’re going to take. Dean’s feet head immediately towards the sleek, black Impala parked in the corner. She’s easily one of the biggest vehicles in the garage, in stark difference to the rest of the trim sedans and boxy SUVs. Castiel always thought that she was a huge beast of a car, but he can admit she cuts an impressive figure. 

The second he slides behind the wheel, Dean releases a long sigh of relief. His hands caress the steering wheel, the dashboard, even the vinyl of the bench seat. Castiel watches the slow play of his fingers over the various surfaces and wonders if it’s normal to be jealous of a car. 

Their arrival at the store heralds a new phase in Castiel’s torment. Added to the already oppressive torture of grocery shopping are a new list of indignities. He and Dean are forced to wait outside in a line stretching across the front of the store. A persistent bead of sweat trickles down his shoulders and he squints into the sun. Dean turns back to look at him and bats at his head with a muffled “Dude, what the hell? Staring into the sun?” Castiel ducks his head, but not without relishing the blunt pressure of Dean’s fingers against his scalp.

Once in the store, Dean ignores exhortations to shop quickly and instead begins examining every piece of meat in the store. How he can find differences between two essentially identical packs of chicken thighs, Castiel doesn’t know, but there he is. 

This is the man that he’s chosen to love. 

The thought sits uncomfortably on his skin, an oil slick on water, and he rolls his shoulders to shake it off. He tugs at Dean’s sleeve and says, loudly enough to be heard behind his mask, “I’m going to go get us coffee.” Dean nods and Castiel heads to the one aisle where he feels comfortable. 

He uses the walk to try and gain perspective. The past forty-eight hours have been a tilt-a-whirl of emotions from which he still hasn’t recovered. 

Fighting is something new for him and Dean. Oh, there were sporadic spats, but they came mostly in the form of a few too-sarcastic remarks easily explained away with a few excuses. Until yesterday, he and Dean have never sought to intentionally wound each other. Regret sits heavy and immovable in Castiel’s belly; he never intended to harm Dean in any way. Still, some small, petty part of him got a sort of catharsis from the altercation. He’s trying to reconcile the two pieces of himself and struggling with it. At this point, he’s caught between two options: he could lock himself in his room and refuse to leave until quarantine is lifted, or he could crawl into Dean’s lap and refuse to leave until quarantine is lifted. 

Both solutions present logistical complications. 

His seclusion is short-lived as Dean announces his presence with a loud, “Hey!” Behind his mask, Castiel smiles. 

“Find anything good?” Dean asks, before, in violation of every social distancing guideline ever written, he throws his arm over Castiel’s shoulders. “You know if you keep standing here, we’re going to get in trouble?” 

He’s not wrong; Castiel has seen the clerks wandering the aisles, searching for loitering customers. Already there’s one who has fixed her beady eyes on him, though whether that’s because he’s been standing in front of the same section of shelves for several minutes or because Dean refuses to take his arm away from his shoulders remains to be seen. 

Cognizant of the clerk’s watchful eyes, Castiel quickly picks out a few of his and Dean’s favorite flavors. A spark of warmth flares in his chest at the thought--his and Dean’s. He likes that they have favorite coffee flavors, just like he likes that Dean asks his opinion on which cut of beef to purchase (they all look exactly the same to him, but he’ll die before he admits that to Dean). They’re building rituals, which is dangerous, because these rituals will last only as long as lockdown. Once quarantine ends, Castiel knows he can bid farewell to their domestic errands. Even that knowledge isn’t enough for him to shake off Dean’s arm. 

Their domestic bliss is shortly interrupted by a sanctimonious cough behind them. In a single, choreographed motion, they turn to find a woman standing less than a safe distance away from them. Above her eye-watering neon pink mask, her eyes are narrowed suspiciously. From the look of her haircut Castiel can guess that sometime in the next twenty-four hours, she’s going to want to speak to a manager. Castiel decides that he dislikes her on basic principle. 

A few awkward seconds pass where they stare at the woman and the woman glares at them. Dean’s gruff voice breaks the silence, his tone deliberately incendiary. “Can I help you, sweetheart?” The lower half of his face is hidden, leaving Castiel to imagine the fearsome twist of his mouth. 

(Castiel tries not to spend too much time thinking about Dean’s mouth, but he has to admit that it is a pleasant pastime.) 

“I thought you should know,” the woman (regardless of her actual moniker, Castiel will now refer to her solely as Karen) says, as she angles her torso closer, “that you’re violating the rules of safe social distancing.” Her eyes flick emphatically Dean’s arm wrapped around Castiel’s shoulders, then narrow into accusatory slits. 

Castiel is flabbergasted. He never expected enlightenment from the majority of citizens (god love it, but Kansas is still Kansas, no matter how wonderful some of the inhabitants are), but he certainly didn’t expect to be confronted in the middle of the coffee aisle. He blinks in polite horror while she stands in front of them, as though expecting thanks for her meddling. 

A brush of air hits the back of Castiel’s neck as Dean twists his fingers in the back of his shirt. Castiel steels himself against the loss of Dean’s arm and the inevitable chill that follows. Dean might have a vague interest in him, might be persuaded into straying to the other side of the fence, so to speak, but Castiel knows such interest never withstands the weight of critical eyes. 

Castiel spends so much time preparing himself for Dean to pull away that he’s completely taken aback when Dean instead pulls him closer. Limp with shock, Castiel finds himself tucked in close to Dean’s side. “First of all, how about you mind your own business.” Dean’s voice is muffled behind his mask, but, pressed against Dean’s side, Castiel can feel the indignation rumbling through his chest. “Second, if I want to put my arm around my boyfriend, then that’s what I’m going to do, and I’ll be damned if anyone stops me.” 

Dean’s chin bumps against Castiel’s cheek as his mask scratches against his temple. Castiel realizes, with a muted sort of astonishment, that, through the barrier of the mask, Dean is pressing a kiss to his hair. It’s very unsanitary but a little frisson of delight worms its way down Castiel’s spine. 

Dean’s eyes scream challenge as he glares at the Karen, while her eyes reflect righteous indignation as she glares right back. Dean’s voice is aggressively cheerful when he says, “Come on sunshine. We need to pick up some whipped cream. For  _ reasons. _ ” Castiel only wishes that he could see the sneer accompanying those words. 

Or perhaps not. The insinuation in Dean’s voice alone is enough to make him wish that he’d worn a looser pair of jeans. Seeing the facial expression which accompanies it might ensure that he’s barred from this store for life. 

(While Castiel certainly wouldn’t mind an excuse not to go grocery shopping, there are other, less humiliating ways of achieving that goal.)

Dean doesn’t remove his arm until they’re well out of the Karen’s sight. When he does, it’s a gradual affair. His fingers tug at the fabric of Castiel’s shirt before they slide down his shoulder to his waist. Dean leaves little trails of fire in the wake of his touch and Castiel knows that he could all too easily grow addicted to the sensation. 

Fearful of the oncoming storm, Castiel glances at Dean. Dean stares straight ahead, examining the sour cream with rather more rigor that is necessarily required. Eventually he sighs and glances towards Castiel. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean to… I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.” 

Castiel tries to smile with his eyes. “Far from it. It was actually quite gratifying. Though I do wish that she hadn’t stood quite so close.” 

“Come on, we still have to finish off the list and this mask is killing me.” Dean doesn’t move and neither does Castiel. 

He’s still rearranging the pieces of his mind to adjust to the world where Dean says the word  _ boyfriend  _ in reference to him. He doesn’t know whether he should be ecstatic that Dean even contemplated the situation or heartbroken that a fleeting second in a grocery store is as close as he’ll ever come to that coveted position. 

However, at the end of the day, there’s only one question which nags at him. 

“Sunshine?”

It’s a shame the mask covers most of Dean’s face. Castiel imagines there would be a wonderful blush creeping across his cheeks. Dean’s eyes dart towards the brightly lit display of dairy, giving skim milk much more attention than it ever deserved. 

“Well, you know, it’s ironic because you’re a grumpy son of a bitch most days, but sometimes when you smile--you know what, it doesn’t really matter. Get the damn milk.”

Dean finishes blustering and strides off towards the eggs. Castiel watches him go until he realizes he’s checking Dean out in the middle of a grocery store. There are children nearby (and how unfair is it that they’re also subjected to Dean’s bowlegs? They should be censored, for the good of humanity). 

_ Boyfriend.  _

Try as he might, he can’t make these puzzle pieces fit into a coherent picture. 

\---

“Who knew that grocery shopping was so strenuous?” Castiel accepts the beer that Dean offers before he slumps back into the couch. “I’m beat.” 

“Well, maybe if you were doing the shopping all along, you would have built up some stamina for it.” Dean pushes at Castiel’s hip until Castiel slides over on the couch. Dean settles into the empty place Castiel left and Castiel tries not to thrill at Dean’s hip pressing against his. 

_ Boyfriend.  _

The word still bounces around Castiel’s head. It’s a slippery thing; he can’t quite look at it head-on. He tries to squash it down, to eradicate the nagging hope it brings, but he either can’t or won’t. 

It doesn’t make sense. If Dean  _ is _ interested (Castiel still can’t wrap his head around a world where that’s possible), then certain actions of his make sense. It stands to reason that Dean would allow Castiel’s hands on him, that Dean would start pushing at the boundaries of affection. It’s him dipping his toes in the water, so to speak. 

What doesn’t make sense are the public gestures of affection. The kiss in front of Sam and Jess, the standoff in the middle of the grocery store. Those facts don’t fit into any part of Castiel’s worldview. Instead of trying to force them into fitting, Castiel takes a long drink of his beer. Maybe his brain will work better with a little more lubrication. 

Even as he considers it, Castiel knows his reasoning is flawed. 

“Trust me, I have plenty of stamina,” Castiel mutters. It’s not until Dean sputters and almost chokes that Castiel realizes the unintended innuendo in his words. 

“Sure,” Dean wheezes, finally regaining some composure. “That’s why you’re sitting here and whining like a baby.” 

Castiel chooses not to dignify that remark with a response. 

Still hacking, Dean turns his attention to the TV screen and starts to flip through Netflix. Castiel takes a sip of his beer and watches the flickering light play over Dean’s face as he scans through various programs. “I think we should watch Blue Planet,” he finally says, when it looks like Dean is about to repeat the process. 

“A documentary. You want us to watch a documentary.” Dean’s eyebrows rise higher as Castiel doesn’t deny it. “You are aware we’re both red-blooded American males in our prime?” 

“I don’t see what that has to do with watching a documentary.” 

Dean waits for the punchline. When none comes, he rolls his eyes. “Fine. We’ll watch your stupid documentary. Don’t blame me when I fall asleep five minutes in.” 

As if in protest, Dean burrows deeper into the couch cushions. He reclines along the length of the couch, long legs stretched over the arm. That alone would be enough to wreak havoc on Castiel’s admittedly strained brain, but the true killing blow occurs when Dean shifts yet again. His final turn leaves his head resting a hairsbreadth from Castiel’s hip. This close, Castiel fears it’s only a matter of time before gravity takes over. 

The opening credits begin, and Castiel can practically feel Dean rolling his eyes. 

Within ten minutes, Dean is riveted by the serene images playing across the screen. He stares unblinking at the tiny dramas playing themselves out in front of him. His half-empty beer rests on the coffee table, forgotten, as he leans forward. 

Castiel finds himself ignoring the program, his attention caught by the play of blue over Dean’s features. He’s riveted by the crease between Dean’s brows, transfixed by the soft curve of his open mouth. Sometimes he forgets how truly beautiful Dean is. The realization strikes him at odd times, like lightning from a clear sky, and each time, Castiel is undone. 

“Shit,” Dean breathes. He slumps back into the couch and Castiel sees the next events happening as though through slow motion. Dean’s shoulder drops, which puts him at a different angle, which puts his head squarely in Castiel’s lap. 

Everything in Castiel, down to the blood in his veins, freezes. His world narrows to the weight of Dean’s head against his thighs, the contrast of Dean’s fair hair and skin against his dark-wash jeans. One of Dean’s hands rests carelessly against his knee, his fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against his patella, and Castiel’s heart obediently pitter-patters along to the beat. 

“Can you believe that?” Dean twists to look at Castiel’s face. At Castiel’s soft noise of confusion, Dean gestures to the screen. A ridiculous looking fish floats along the bottom of the seabed, churning up silt with its fins. Its large eyes peer out at the world while its fishy mouth looks like it’s trying to stretch into a smile. 

“This pufferfish, man. It spends a week making this nest. Look at it!” Dean pinches at Castiel’s knee and then points to the TV. The screen shows him a picture of a geometrically pleasing spiral, its swirls leading to the center. “He churns his fins through the sand, filtering all the rough stuff out until only the softest sand remains, and all for his...I don’t know, fish girlfriend or whatever. He makes  _ art _ for her.” 

Dean’s voice is oddly choked and Castiel looks down at him in confusion. “Dean, are you...upset?” 

There’s an incriminating pause before Dean says, a little too emphatically, “No. It’s just a stupid fish.” There’s another pause as an equally ridiculous looking fish joins the original fish. The second fish swims around the center of the spiral before settling down in the sand. Castiel doesn’t think he’s imagining the look of satisfaction on its face. “It’s just… Why are humans so lame? These fish spend a week making a design for their girlfriend, and humans, what? Send a text?” 

“I would build you a nest,” Castiel murmurs, thoughtlessly. It takes a few seconds for him to realize his blunder. “I mean… If you wanted. I guess. Or not.” 

“You couldn’t build me a nest,” Dean tells him. Castiel’s almost hurt by the words until he looks down and sees the mischief sparkling in Dean’s eyes. “Cas, you can barely operate a damn dishwasher without adult supervision. Nest-building is out of the picture.” Dean turns his attention back to the screen. 

Castiel barely has a second to relax before Dean adds, a little too casual to be entirely nonchalant, “I could build you a nest though.” 

Castiel has no answer to that save to drape his arm over Dean’s waist. In an uncommon show of bravery, he even dares to tighten his grip. Some might even call it an embrace. Judging from Dean’s contented sigh, that’s enough. 

\---

**day twenty-three**

_ Quarantine or social distancing or physical distancing or whatever else you want to call it seems to have affected us all in different ways. For example, grocery shopping, never a favorite chore, has turned into something of apocalyptic proportions. The stores look like stills from zombie movies as we all hunt for toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and yeast. At the same time, even as I’m remembering that I have no idea how to work a chainsaw and I don’t even know where to start looking for a machete, grocery shopping has become a sort of...saving grace, I suppose? It’s a society-approved chance to interact with someone else other than Roommate.  _

_ In other news, Roommate and I went grocery shopping.  _

_ This was strange for a number of reasons--one, because Roommate usually does about eighty percent of the grocery shopping. I know where to find the coffee, the cereal, and frozen foods, and that’s about it. So figuring out where to find peanut butter is a little weird. It’s weirder when you’re trying to dodge a soccer mom intent on painting the walls with your blood if she doesn’t get the last jar of crunchy, honey-roasted peanut butter (apparently this is the last jar in the whole state, if the way she was angling for it would suggest).  _

_ It was weirder because I never realized how much fun it can be to shop with another person.  _

_ Or maybe quarantine has turned me into a sad zombie that takes pleasure from bitching about how only organic vegetable broth is available, which is at least seventy cents more expensive than the regular kind. And even typing that sentence makes me cringe, so I’m forced to conclude that it’s not me that’s changed, it’s the company.  _

_ I guess that’s telling, when you find someone who makes talking about organic vegetables not only bearable but actually entertaining. That means something, right?  _

_ In other news, somewhat but not entirely related to my first piece of news, I might be in love with my roommate.  _

Castiel finishes typing and sits back in his chair. He’ll probably change a few words, maybe transcript a conversation he and Dean also had about milk ( _ Skim milk is disgusting Cas, it’s like murky water, what the hell are you trying to prove? _ ), but he’s mostly done with this blog post. 

He’d thought long and hard about including their encounter with the Karen, before he decided against the idea. It’s not that Dean vs. the Karen doesn’t provide entertainment, rather the opposite. It’s that the whole experience feels too close for Castiel to divulge to the internet. That moment, Dean’s arm around his shoulders, Dean’s attempt at a kiss, the word  _ boyfriend  _ rolling off of Dean’s lips--those are for  _ him _ , and no one else. 

Castiel smiles at the memory before he switches to his other tab. Here, his story with Jess is slowly taking place, and he reads over the first half with satisfaction. Jess’ voice is strong throughout, and she’s an engaging protagonist. She’s sympathetic without delving in melodrama and she accurately illustrates the hospital’s need without sounding accusatory. 

He checks the clock and picks up his phone. If he’s right, then Jess should be waking up from her afternoon nap. She’s working a brual schedule, four days on and three days off, with twelve hour shifts stretching into sixteen hours. Today is one of her coveted days off, and if it weren’t for the fact that she said several times, quite forcefully at the end, that Castiel was welcome to call her at any time, then he wouldn’t dream of bothering her. 

The phone rings twice before it picks up. A high falsetto voice answers. “Mistress Moore’s House of Pain, how may I direct your masochism?” 

Castiel blinks. “Jess?”

In the background, there’s a commotion and a laughing, “Asshole, give me my phone!” Another few seconds pass and then Jess answers, a little breathlessly, “Cas?” 

“Not Mistress Moore?” 

“Ha, no. That was Sam, who likes to think that he’s funny.” ( _ I’m plenty funny, you just have a bad sense of humor,  _ Sam protests in the background.) “Trust me, if I ever start running a dominatrix business, I definitely won’t use a lame name like that.” 

“Always good to know.” 

“Although, you do have to admit, Mistress Moore does roll off the tongue,” Jess muses. “Anyway, enough of that. What’s up?” 

“I thought if you had some time we could talk a little bit more about the article. That’s if you want. If not, we could… talk about the latest TV shows?” 

Jess’ laugh is clear and free of mockery. “Cas, do you even know the latest TV shows?” 

Castiel shrugs before he realizes Jess can’t see the gesture. “Dean and I are working our way through the streaming services. Though there are infinitely more seasons of Dr. Sexy than I originally thought.” 

“Not that. Get out. Get out while you still can.” Though Castiel can’t see Jess, he can imagine the theatrical shudder running through her body. “Seriously, when I would come over to spend the night with Sam, Dean would always try and get us to watch the show with him.” Her voice turns fond and perhaps a little nostalgic. “I don’t know if he just wanted to torture Sam or if he was just lonely.” 

Castiel coughs, uncomfortable with the sudden turn in the conversation. He can’t talk about Dean with Jess. There’s no way that he’ll make it out of that conversation without incriminating himself. 

“So I was wondering if there was any change in hospital policies since the last time we spoke.” His voice is strangled and awkward. The segue in conversation falls so flat that even Castiel winces. 

Like the kind soul she is, Jess doesn’t mention it. “Well, now we’re being asked to use homemade masks over our hospital issued ones. We can take the homemade masks off after every room, where they’ll be rewashed and used again. Thanks to Gilda, I’ve got a pretty good stash, but we’re working with a worst case scenario here. We’re also reusing the protective gowns that are intended to be one-use only. They get doused in bleach and hung up to dry at the end of our shifts so we can use them again.” Jess sighs. There’s more than a hint of frustration in the sound. “We’re all holding on by our fingernails and hoping we get lucky and no one gets sick.” 

Jess’ voice drops. “I just worry about Sam. I mean, I worry about me too, I don’t want to get sick, but I at least signed up for this. Well, not exactly this. I’m sorry, I’m rambling.” Castiel murmurs a soft encouragement and Jess continues. “When I enrolled in nursing school, I always knew there was a chance a patient could get me sick. And I signed on anyway because ever since I was a kid, I knew I wanted to be a nurse. But Sam never signed on for any of this, and the idea that just by doing my job, I’m putting him in danger…” Jess inhales, the sound shaky over the phone. “I thought about going to a hotel, you know? Booking a room there, at least for a few weeks, and that way I wouldn’t be bringing this stuff home. But in the end… I’m really selfish and I need something to look forward to at the end of the day. He’s one of the only things getting me through this, and the thought of not seeing him…” 

A weak, watery laugh filters through the line, along with a muffled sniff, before Jess speaks again. “I’m sorry. I know that’s not what you’re looking for.” 

“That’s exactly what I’m looking for.” Castiel swallows. Perhaps he’s overstepping his bounds, but the thought of Jess torturing herself over desiring comfort sits poorly with him. “Sam signed up for it all when he signed up for marrying you. If you went to a hotel, then you’d just be hurting him. He’d drive himself insane worrying about you.” 

He waits for Jess’ response, chewing his lower lip in anxiety. It’s not like him to stick his nose into other people’s business, and even less like him to comment. He just can’t forget the look in Sam’s eyes when he looked at Jess, as though she were the most precious thing in the world, like she hung the moon and the stars. It stuck in Castiel’s mind because he selfishly wanted the same expression to be on Dean’s face. 

“You’re a good egg, Cas,” Jess finally says. There’s a smile flirting with the edges of her voice when she says, “I see why Dean likes you.” 

The words could easily be explained away (of course Dean likes him, he’s a decent roommate and he doesn’t steal shit, what’s not to like?) if it weren’t for the awkward coughs following Jess’ words. Castiel waits politely for her to finish while his mind runs wild. 

(What did Jess mean that Dean likes him? Does he  _ like  _ like him? When did he revert back to high school? Is he expected to slip Dean a note in his locker now? Would it be considered rude if he demanded more information? Is that needy? Why, instead of forcing quadratic equations into his head, didn’t his professors teach a course on untangling the complexities of human interaction?)

“Sorry,” Jess wheezes, once she’s done trying to remove her lungs via her esophagus. “Something caught in my throat.” 

Castiel hums and hopes his skepticism doesn’t carry over to Jess’ end. If it does, she doesn’t mention it. “And how are you holding up? Just in general?”

“Well, I break down over the phone.” Jess sniffles and forces a weak laugh. “I fell asleep the other day over a bowl of cereal. Didn’t even drop the spoon. Sam picked me up and put me into bed. I woke up a few hours later and couldn’t figure out where the damn cereal had gone.” 

Jess’ voice sobers. “He’s been a rock, you know? I mean, I know he’s freaked out because he was pretty junior in the office, so he’s wondering if they’re going to scale back personnel or cut his salary, but he doesn’t show any of that to me. He’s been going online and looking up recipes to make of stuff I always said I’d like to try. He tried tiramisu the other night, not a success, I would not recommend. He even tried baking bread.” 

“He likes to take care of you,” Cas murmurs, though his mind spirals far away from the conversation. He’s busy picturing the simple delight on Dean’s face as he slides a plate of food towards Castiel. The satisfied glint in his eyes as Castiel notices the inclusion of his favorite brand of tea in the cart, without any prompting. Waking up on the couch covered by a blanket which hadn’t been there when he fell asleep. 

“That’s something the Winchester men have in common.” 

Something in Castiel instinctively recoils from the soft, knowing note in Jess’ voice. She’s too close to the truth, brushing against the places he tries to keep hidden, and he can’t cover all of his vulnerabilities quickly enough.

“The thing you have to understand,” Jess says in a rush, like she’s afraid Castiel will hang up if she gives him a moment to think, “is their dad fucked them both up and I don’t think Dean even realizes it.”

“Jess, I don’t feel comfortable talking about this with you.” Castiel’s skin crawls and he casts a glance over his shoulder. He halfway expects to find Dean there, glowering in rage. The lack of Dean doesn’t alleviate his guilt. He knows Dean has boxes upon boxes of unpacked issues, but he’d always wanted Dean to unpack those boxes himself. He doesn’t want Jess rummaging around in Dean’s private life and throwing out information like a few choice prizes. 

“I know, I’m terrible and skeevy and you can be pissed at me later, but you need to know.” Jess pauses before she says, quietly enough that Castiel could pretend he didn’t hear her, if he wanted. “I’ve seen how you look at Dean.” 

Castiel feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. All the oxygen rushes out of his lungs and he’s left reeling. 

If Jess knows, then Sam knows. If Sam knows, then it’s possible Dean might… Dean might… 

“Please,” he asks, something dark and oily slithering in his stomach, “please don’t tell him.” 

“I would never.” Jess sounds offended by the idea and Castiel can’t help but believe her. “Cas, you’re my friend. You know that right?” she asks after a long pause. 

Castiel’s chest unclenches at her words. “Yes, of course,” he answers, though he hadn’t truly known, at least not until that moment. 

“I don’t want either you or Dean to be hurt. So just...be patient with him? Dean’s one of the best guys I know, he’d give the literal shirt off his back to help someone, but--” 

“Jess.” Something in Castiel’s voice stops her. “Please. I know you’re trying to help but I truly don’t feel comfortable talking about Dean behind his back. If there’s something Dean wants me to know, then he’ll tell me. And if he doesn’t tell me, then it’s none of my business.” 

“All right. You’re probably right. Shit. I’m sorry, Cas. I get too involved and stick my stupid nose in where it doesn’t belong, and I end up going way over the line.” 

“You just want Dean to be happy.” Castiel swallows down the lump in his throat. “That’s all I want too.” 

This time, the silence stretches on for so long that Castiel wonders if they’ve been disconnected. When Jess speaks again, it’s hesitant. “You make him happy, Cas. You know that, right?” 

And to that, Castiel has no answer. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-

**day twenty-four**

  
  


Castiel Novak wants Dean to die. 

That must be it. It’s the only thing that would explain why said sleeper-agent Novak is literally sleeping. On him. 

It’s a complicated, twisting path which led to this point. 

Or not really. It’s more like he put on a movie, Cas fell asleep, and gravity took its toll. 

What is complicated is the churning emotion gnawing at his chest as he looks down at Cas, his head comfortably pillowed on Dean’s chest. Well, that’s not really complicated either. He knows exactly how he feels about Cas. 

Cas’ feelings, on the other hand, are a relative mystery, and that’s the complicated part. 

Dean’s not really sure what to think at this point. He and Cas have been doing this more and more lately, blurring their boundaries, deliberately ignoring their unspoken rules in favor of stealing more touches like this. 

Cas is a warm, heavy weight atop him, his head pillowed in the center of Dean’s chest. A damp, humid patch spreads across Dean’s shirt directly under Cas’ mouth (Dean might have feelings for his roommate, might see himself falling for him, might actually have already fallen, but if Cas is drooling on him, then that’s just gross and not at all bordering on adorable). Cas’ fingers curl unthinkingly into the soft fabric of Dean’s shirt. The gesture is vulnerable and possessive, and Dean’s chest twists at the sight. 

He’s not aware of the moment when Castiel shifted from being upright on his end of the couch to horizontal on top of him. He dozed off himself for a while (it was a long, hard day of doing nothing, it wears on the body) and when he woke up… There was Castiel. 

Dean’s fingers itch with the impulse to trace designs over the wings of Castiel’s shoulders, or to stroke through the soft, tangled mess of his hair. He doesn’t know, however, how Castiel would react to those touches, if he would find them too presumptuous. If this were three weeks ago, then he would know what was allowed. 

If this were three weeks ago, then they wouldn’t be in this situation at all. 

Dean wants to carve this moment out of the rest of time so he can hold it and examine it whenever he pleases. It’s close to everything that he’s ever wanted from Cas. The only improvement would be if Cas was conscious for this bit of cuddling, but Dean’s long since accustomed himself to the idea he can’t have everything. 

It’s better this way. Safer, certainly. This way he gets to indulge himself, gets to sink into the fantasy of doing this every night with Cas, and Cas doesn’t have to deal with any of Dean’s bullshit. 

The movie’s long since stopped playing and the TV’s gone into sleep mode. Robbed of that bit of entertainment and under no circumstances ready to wake Cas, Dean reaches for his phone instead. 

After going through his usual social media haunts, Dean opens Emmanuel’s blog. It’s been a few days since he read and he’s interested to see if there are any new posts. He maneuvers his phone to avoid shining the light in Cas’ face and eagerly clicks on the newest entry. 

_ Quarantine or social distancing or physical distancing or whatever else you want to call it seems to have affected us all in different ways. For example, grocery shopping, never a favorite chore, has turned into something of apocalyptic proportions. The stores look like stills from zombie movies as we all hunt for toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and yeast. At the same time, even as I’m remembering that I have no idea how to work a chainsaw and I don’t even know where to start looking for a machete, grocery shopping has become a sort of...saving grace, I suppose? It’s a society-approved chance to interact with someone else other than Roommate.  _

_ In other news, Roommate and I went grocery shopping.  _

Dean pauses. Something about the post strikes him as oddly familiar. He can’t shake the feeling that he’s read these words somewhere before, which is of course, absurd. He frowns and continues scrolling. 

After reading another few lines, Dean stops. The nagging familiarity gnaws at the back of his mind and this time he can’t dismiss it. Something rings a little too true about Emmanuel’s recounting of the grocery trip, something too close to home to dismiss. 

Dean almost bolts upright when it hits him. 

The opening lines to the blog post. He doesn’t remember exactly (it’s been a few days, his memory is foggy, and certainly he can’t be expected to have a photographic memory), but he’d be willing to bet that he saw those exact same lines on Cas’ computer a few days ago. 

And the store… He remembers bitching to Cas about the lack of vegetable broth and the need to buy organic. They had that very conversation less than twenty-four hours ago (Dean’s still a little irritated if he’s telling the truth). 

And then the last line, the one that has Dean’s heart stopping before it picks up its rhythm in a quick, double-time pace. 

_ In other news, somewhat but not entirely related to my first piece of news, I might be in love with my roommate.  _

In love. Emmanuel thinks he’s in love with his roommate. Emmanuel. Thinks he might be in love. With his roommate. His roommate who complains about organic vegetable broth, and who resembles Dean in a hell of a lot of ways, now that Dean thinks about it. 

Dean casts his eyes down to Cas’ peaceful face. 

“Cas,” he whispers, looking between Emmanuel’s blog and his sleeping roommate, “Cas, are you Emmanuel?” 

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love ya, mean it. 
> 
> **No actual Karens were harmed in the writing of this chapter.


	8. thank you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is acting strange. 
> 
> Well. Stranger than usual. 
> 
> The moment Castiel stumbles to the kitchen, the atmosphere is...charged. It’s not necessarily tense, but something has changed from the previous day. It reminds Castiel of how the sky darkens before a storm, the tingle of incipient electricity in the air, the smell of rain washing in from afar. Castiel meets Dean’s eyes and the air between them snaps and pops with potential. Castiel swallows while his fight or flight response wages a war in his skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait folks. 
> 
> And also please don't kill me.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


**day twenty-five**

  
  


Dean is acting strange. 

Well. Stranger than usual. 

The moment Castiel stumbles to the kitchen, the atmosphere is...charged. It’s not necessarily tense, but something has changed from the previous day. It reminds Castiel of how the sky darkens before a storm, the tingle of incipient electricity in the air, the smell of rain washing in from afar. Castiel meets Dean’s eyes and the air between them snaps and pops with potential. Castiel swallows while his fight or flight response wages a war in his skull. 

“Hey!” Even Dean’s voice is different, a little too forced, too cheery. He reminds Castiel of an actor trying to approximate an emotion they’ve only read about. Each reaction rings just slightly false, but Castiel doesn’t know who Dean’s performing for. 

Maybe Castiel’s just tired. He did spend an indeterminate amount of time sleeping on the couch last night (he also couldn’t help but notice, in an example of a subconscious run wild, how closely his sleeping body had come to being draped over Dean’s lap. Thank goodness he’d never made it there; the embarrassment would have been unbearable). Dean was staring at the television, his attention caught by an episode of Chopped, and only the cracking of Castiel’s spine as he’d sat up had brought his focus away. 

“You fell asleep,” Dean says, a little unnecessarily. It had been dark, so Castiel hadn’t been able to tell for sure, but he could have sworn there was a thin shred of something resembling panic in the whites of Dean’s eyes. “I’m going to go ahead and call it a night. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.” 

He tossed the remote on the couch beside Castiel, before fleeing towards his room. Before Castiel could ever call out a _Good Night_ , the door shut behind Dean. Castiel stared at the thin barrier of wood, his stomach sinking. 

He’s seen this before--the withdrawal, the awkwardness, the furtive looks hidden behind camaraderie and forced cheer. He notices how Dean remains carefully out of reach, as well as the startled look in his eye when Castiel stands next to him. 

Cold resignation wraps around him. Dean doesn’t have to say anything; Castiel already knows. Regret practically oozes from Dean’s pores. 

Castiel tucks himself away in his office and closes the door to the outside world. He taps listlessly at his keyboard, writing a sentence only to erase it a moment later. Work is a distant dream, but Castiel persists in going through the motions. Caught in a creative swamp, he reads over his last blog post, wincing as he comes to the final words. 

_In other news, somewhat but not entirely related to my first piece of news, I might be in love with my roommate._

Hadn’t he known, from the very start, that falling for Dean was an enterprise doomed to failure? The second he looked at Dean, he’d known he was in danger, but he’d still persisted. He’d signed the lease agreement and proceeded into an arrangement he’d known was destined to end badly. Now that the wobbly tower of his life is starting to sway, Castiel knows he has no one to blame but himself. 

He’d been so stupid, thinking he could have it all--Dean’s arm around his shoulder, Dean’s hands sweeping through his hair, the rough brush of Dean’s lips on his skin. Greedy and impetuous, he’d grabbed and he’d grasped and never once considered the consequences of doing so. 

A hesitant rap sounds on the office door. Castiel doesn’t bother turning around as he mutters a lackluster, “It’s open.” As the door opens, the creak of the hinges sounds apologetic. 

“Hey Cas.” The flimsy wood of the door jamb creaks as Dean leans against it. He coughs to fill the silence. Castiel doesn’t really spend much time cataloguing each of Dean’s coughs (that would make him creepy, and he is certainly not creepy), but he would classify this particular cough as falling somewhere between ‘nervous’ and ‘reluctant’. “Um listen, I’m not feeling so hot, so I’m going to head on to bed.” 

One apathetic shove of Castiel’s foot forces his chair into a slow, lazy turn that leaves him facing the door. Dean hasn’t even stepped inside his office. He’s barely crossed the threshold of the door, like a delivery man determined to practice contactless delivery.

Castiel pastes an expression of mild concern, appropriate for a roommate, onto his face. If Dean wants to pretend like nothing ever happened...then it’ll eat away at Castiel from the inside out, but he can pretend as well. “Sorry you’re not feeling well. I’ll just order takeout or something.” 

Dean shifts, his gaze focused on his feet. “You don’t have to. There are some leftovers in the fridge you can reheat. I think there’s some of that chicken you like in there.” 

Castiel blinks slowly. “Thank you, Dean.” He swallows, suddenly desperate to try and bridge the abruptly insurmountable gap between them. “Dean, do you think that we could--” 

But before he can finish his sentence, Dean is gone, yet another door closing behind him. 

It’s for the best, Castiel tells himself. He has to push at the carpet several times before he finally turns his chair back towards his laptop. It’s for the best. What would he have asked Dean? _Do you think we could have a meaningful conversation about our feelings? Do you think we could discuss your latent bisexual tendencies_ , _and hey, while we’re at it, we could possibly include how your upbringing reenforced notions of toxic masculinity? Do you think we could make out for a little while, maybe exchange handies, and then we’ll fall asleep in each other's arms, thus sparking a life of wedded bliss?_

Dean’s made his feelings perfectly clear. No matter how he feels about it, Castiel has to respect them.

His resolution doesn’t stop him from knocking gingerly on Dean’s door later that night. “Dean,” he calls softly, “I was wondering how you were feeling. Are you awake? I thought, maybe if you were feeling better we could watch something? I’ve got some brownies in the oven in case you were feeling hungry.” 

No answer. Castiel swallows down the brief flare of hurt and forces his voice to become airy and unconcerned. “Anyway. If you change your mind, I’ll be in my room. I’ll probably be awake for the next couple of hours.” Dozens of words tussle on the tip of Castiel’s tongue. He releases none of them. “Um. I hope you feel better. And if you’re asleep, I hope I didn’t wake you up.” 

Castiel walks back to the kitchen. Not even the scent of freshly baked brownies can detract from his misery. He throws a haphazard cover over the brownies and makes his lonely way back to his room. 

He keeps the volume down low on his television in case Dean knocks on his door, but he never does. 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-

**day twenty-six**

Dean rolls over in bed and stares at the blank wall. 

He hates renting. More than anything, he wants to take a fresh coat of paint to the asylum white walls and breathe life into this festering cesspool of a room. But he’s shackled by lease agreements and security deposits. 

Dean huffs a sigh and rolls onto his back. The ceiling provides no fresh entertainment, not that he was expecting anything. In general, ceilings are not known for their amusing qualities. 

His body aches with the weight of too much sleep. Instead of his normal four hours, he’s working with the weight of almost twelve. Paradoxically, it’s left him sluggish and sore, his back protesting as he rolls over to his other side. At this rate, he’s spinning more than a rotisserie chicken. 

Hiding in his room is the coward’s way out. If Dean were a better person, he’d march out of his room and confront this problem head on (if Dean were a better person, there wouldn’t be a problem to begin with). He’d spent the majority of yesterday tucked beneath too many blankets for a mild spring evening, feeling sorry for himself. His only entertainment had been Cas’ knock on his door, sometime in the early evening. 

Cas, who walked around with a wounded look all day yesterday. Cas, who baked brownies (which, if he managed to avoid burning the shit out of them, will be an impressive feat of baking mastery on his part) because he thought Dean might enjoy them. Cas, whose voice was so defeated when he knocked on Dean’s door last night, that it took everything in Dean not to run after him and wrap him in a crushing embrace. 

Cas, who is maybe, possibly a semi-famous blogger with a fairly devoted fanbase. 

Cas, who is maybe, possibly, in love with him. 

The lump Dean’s been trying to swallow down for the past twenty-four hours rears its ugly head once more. It’s lodged right at the base of his throat, which turns previously simple tasks, such as eating and breathing, into Olympian feats of strength. Every time he twists in his covers, he can remember exactly how Cas’ warm weight felt pressed atop him. He remembers the slack look of trust and peace on Cas’ face as he slept, uncaring of the world around them. 

Castiel doesn’t realize that Dean is poison, unrelenting and insidious. He doesn’t realize that eventually, Dean will seep into every facet and pore of his life, until it’s left in shambles. Dean refuses to see Cas end up in the same heap as his other relationships. He won’t allow his relationship with Cas to dissolve into ashes, like Cassie, like Lisa, like all the rest of them. 

Castiel thinks he loves Dean (possibly. The truth of Emmanuel’s identity is still unconfirmed and isn’t that a little nugget of doubt that’s going to fester). Dean is positive he loves Castiel. 

(It never occurs to Dean to be angry with Castiel. He’s too caught up in the novelty and wonder of it all--Castiel loves him? Who could have dreamt?)

The intelligent thing to do would be to have an honest conversation with Cas. But the niggling fear creeps up Dean’s spine and nestles along his shoulders, whispering into his ear. What if he’s got this all wrong?

What if Emmanuel is some sweaty dude with a beer gut who lives in Florida and wrestles gators in his spare time? What if Cas laughs him out of the apartment, scornful at the idea that someone like Dean could have a chance with someone like him? And what would Dean even say? All of his conversation starters sound pathetically ludicrous. 

_Hi Cas. Say, by chance, do you run a sponsored blog with over a million followers, where you write about how thirsty you are for me? Oh, that is you? Well, in that case, which would you prefer--a relaxing dinner date, hosted in our apartment of course, or should we just get naked now? While we’re at it, can I have your ring size? No particular reason--do you prefer yellow or white gold?_

Numbers are where Dean finds his comfort. Words are Cas’ forte. Last night, Cas attempted to give him words, and Dean ignored him. There’s really no one to blame here but himself. 

Dean grabs his phone, ready to take a break from his angsting. He flips to Charlie’s name and types out a quick message. 

**_so on a scale of one to ten, how bad would it be if I just didn’t do work today?_ **

Charlie’s reply comes quickly. 

**_probably not at all, no one’s looking. something happen? you get yourself some hot loving?_ **

Dean’s stomach churns. He sends a series of frowny and angry face emojis to show his displeasure, then his thumbs pause over the screen. He types out his next question quickly and sends it before he has a chance to regret his actions. 

**_hey do you remember when you told me you could get the IP address from emmanuel’s blog? were you just flexing or can you actually do that?_ **

**_um exactly who do you think you’re talking to? any particular reason you want this information now?_ **

**_not really and i didn’t even say i wanted it. just wanted to know if you could do it. call me skeptical_ **

**_you’re funny winchester._ **

At the moment, ‘funny’ feels like something Dean read about in a book once. 

**_seriously are you ok? not like you to play hooky_ **

**_is it playing hooky when i’m not in the office? what’s to say that i’m ever doing work?_ **

**_don’t give me that philosophical crap. if you need me you know where i’ll be because i can’t leave_ **

Dean sends a neutral smiley emoji, which will probably piss Charlie off, but it at least allows him to bow semi-gracefully out of the conversation. He tosses his phone aside and looks down at the floor. The distance between it and his bed seems insurmountable. Best to remain tucked in the comforter, safe from responsibility, consequences, and Castiel. 

The phone rings and like a fool, Dean answers it before he checks the caller’s name. 

“Hey loser, Charlie said you were sad and possibly grumpy. What’s up?” 

Dean doesn’t bother to muffle his groan of irritation as he shoves his face into the pillow. Literally the last thing he wanted to deal with this morning was Sam Winchester, Quarantine and Busybody Extraordinaire. 

“Don’t you have baby booties to knit or something?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sam’s tone is the exact kind of prissy guaranteed to piss Dean off. “It’s easier to start with a baby blanket.” Dean rolls his eyes towards the ceiling. “Anyway, I just finished my morning run and I’ve got a few hours before Jess wakes up, so I’m sure I have plenty of time for dealing with your trauma. Shoot.” 

Setting aside for the moment the idea of a morning run (Dean’s stomach churns at the very thought), Dean shrugs. “Not much to tell Sammy. I’m fine. Everything’s super cool at la casa de Winchester.” 

Amazing how Sam doesn’t even have to speak to register his disbelief. “You know I can smell your bullshit from here, right?” he finally asks. 

“Strong words coming from someone whose ass I wiped. You wanna talk bullshit, or I guess moose shit--” 

“Dean, seriously!” Sam’s tone shifts from prissy and into the territory of self-righteous. “Something about what you said bothered Charlie so much that she texted me. She said you’re not working today?” 

“And?” Dean nurses the kernel of resentment in his chest and marks Charlie down as a snitch for the rest of time. “That’s a big deal because why?”

“Because in the entire time you’ve had this job, I can remember you taking exactly five six days and those were because your appendix almost burst. Now, unless you need emergency surgery again, in which case I strongly advise you to put Cas on the phone right now, I’m going to need you to tell me what’s wrong.” 

“Nothing’s fucking wrong,” Dean insists, though the vehemence of his argument would suggest otherwise. “Can’t a man just feel down in the dumps about quarantine?” 

“Sure, and if I thought that were the case, then I’d leave you alone. But somehow, I think there’s something else eating at you.” 

Dean clenches his jaw and tries to impart a sheer wall of ice across the phone line and straight into Sam’s ear. No such luck, not that he expected success. Of the two of them, Sam is the one with the capability to hold a sulk. Faced with his brother’s stony silence, Dean folds like a bad hand of cards. 

“I’m just sick of being stuck in this apartment. I’m going crazy here. There’s nothing to do, there’s no one to talk to--”

“You don’t talk to Cas? Last time I saw you two, you were, uh...pretty cozy.” To his credit, Sam tries to keep the insinuation out of his voice. He fails, because he’s terrible, but at least he tries. 

“Sure, I talk to Cas. We have conversations.” 

_I make breakfast and dinner for him, and we spend hours in his office talking about shit I haven’t talked about with anyone else, and we go grocery shopping together, and we cuddle on the couch, and I’ve tried to kiss him twice, and oh yeah, there’s this thing where I’m almost convinced Cas told the whole internet he’s in love with me?_

“I’m not seeing the problem. If you and Cas aren’t fighting, then what’s wrong?”

What’s wrong is Cas smart, funny, talented, and driven, and Dean is only clinging to a facade of success. Sooner or later, he’s going to slip, and then reveal himself for the failure he truly is. Then he’ll lose Cas for good. He’s only sparing himself from pain and Cas from a minor inconvenience. 

“Dean, did something happen?” 

Dean hates Sam’s delicate phrasing and too careful tone. “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.” 

“Sure.” Sam’s speaking in his courtroom voice, all polished angles and smooth lines. “I’ll just tell you what you’re apparently too far in denial to see. You want me to come up with some good pick-up lines while I’m at it, or do you want to do those yourself?”

“Bitch,” Dean mutters, without heat. It’s not like Sam’s wrong. 

“Look, you don’t need me to tell you what you already know. You don’t need my advice, and I’m not going to talk you out of what you’ve already decided. Or into it, whichever.” 

“You don’t shit where you eat,” Dean tries. Even to his ears, the protest falls pathetically weak. “Look, say we do start something. When it all goes to shit, I’m going to lose my roommate and my friend.” 

“Why do you assume that it would go to shit?”

Bitterness falls off Dean’s laugh in scalding little drops that leave corrosive holes in the bedspread. “Haven’t you been paying attention? It always goes to shit. Everything I try always ends in flames.” 

“Dean, that’s not true.” Sam has that tone in his voice, like he wants to right the world’s wrongs with nothing more than his loving spirit and a can-do attitude. 

“What show have you been watching? Cassie? Leo? _Lisa?_ Would you describe any of those as happy endings?” 

“None of those people were right for you. Not even Lisa.” Sam sighs. “Look, I had nothing against Lisa. She was really sweet and smart and I liked her, but you two just didn’t fit. It was like you could never manage to get in sync with each other.” 

Laying in bed, listening to Sam describe his longest relationship as meaningless, Dean comes to the slow realization that he is, almost unbearably lonely. The sudden weight of it threatens to crush him into the mattress, at the same time as the canyon in his chest yawns wide enough to swallow a truck. And whenever he’s with Cas, even if it’s just for a short while, Cas manages to lift that burden. 

“So Lisa wasn’t right.” Dean wants to leave the conversation there, where he can be indignant and Sam can be vaguely chastised, but the words, tinted by shame, come tumbling out of him. “How do you know when it’s right?” If anyone asks, Dean will deny ever seeking relationship advice from his younger brother (never mind the fact Sam is happily married, with the kind of disgusting love that lasts until people are in their eighties, older brothers aren’t supposed to ask their younger siblings for anything). 

“I don’t know. You just...you _know_ , I guess? Like the first time I spoke to Jess, it just kind of clicked. I mean, I didn’t start booking venues, but I knew she was going to be important. And about three months in, I just looked at her and that’s when it clicked. I knew she was the person I wanted to grow old with. I never wanted to stop seeing her smile.” 

Dean stretches the moment for as long as he can. “Wow Sammy,” he finally drawls. “So, how do you and Jess coordinate your menstrual cycles? Do you run out of tampons super fast when you both sync up?” 

“Haha, very funny, I’m a girl. Hilarious. Point is, did you ever once look at Lisa and _know_ she was going to be your future? Or did you just want her to be?” 

Dean doesn’t answer, which is an answer in itself. He’d wanted everything Lisa offered: a chance to finally start building something, a chance to be happy, a chance to prove his father wrong, and show that he could be part of something _good._ But he can’t stop thinking of when he first spoke to Cas, a gear finally shifting into place, the gut-punch clarity that made him blink and view the world in color for the first time. The certainty behind that feeling, the unbidden thought of _Hello, it’s you. I’ve been waiting for you._

Dean’s thoughts are still tangled when Sam says, a little too kindly, “Anyway, Charlie’s having a thing on Saturday. Zoom party. BYOB.” He snorts out a weak little chuckle at his own joke. “You and Cas should join.” 

Dean swallows hard, the reminder of Cas twisting at his guts. “Yeah, I don’t know about that. Cas and I aren’t exactly talking right now.” 

Sam’s silence screams displeasure from a whole twenty minutes away. “Well, it’s Monday. Is it possible that you’ll have a full conversation with him by Saturday evening?”

“Well, shit Sammy, I don’t know.” Dean knows he shouldn’t be snarking at Sam, but he’s so deep into the pool of self-loathing that Sam is the only clear target he can make out. “Maybe we’ll snuggle and braid each other's hair.”

Sam hums into the phone. Dean’s always suspicious when his little brother doesn’t rise to his bait. “Well, if you’re snuggling just make sure you use protection.” He hangs up before Dean can curse him roundly, or possibly reach through the phone line and strangle him. 

Dean stares at his phone, fuming. He’s got half a mind to call Sam back and subject him to a bonafide Dean Winchester rant, but he doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. He settles for composing possible retorts to Sam, playing them over in his head until they’re perfect. If Sam ever mentions anything involving the combination of him, Cas, or snuggling, he’ll be ready damn it. 

His stomach growls loudly, interrupting his sulk. At some point, he’s going to have to feed and bathe himself, not necessarily in that order. With slow, dragging steps, Dean makes his way to the bathroom, shedding his shirt and boxers along the way. He steps into the hot spray of his shower and sighs. His dick, roused by the heat as well as the inevitable train of his thoughts when he’s naked and wet, stirs against his thigh. 

“Fuck off,” Dean tells it, stubbornly ignoring the small pang in his balls. If he’s going to get over this crush (the stubborn, insistent voice in his head whispers that it’s so much more than a crush, but that voice has always been a bit of an asshole, so Dean does his best to ignore it) then he needs to stop thinking like Cas is something he can have. 

His dick stays resolutely half-hard through his shower, while Dean just as resolutely ignores it. It’s not until he walks into the chilly air of his room that his chub subsides. He throws on the first clean shirt and pair of jeans he can find, then steels himself to leave his room for the first time in almost eighteen hours. 

It’s almost comical, how he pokes his head out and cautiously scans for Cas. Upon finding the living room and kitchen empty, he ventures out. His stomach rumbles again, a low growl echoing through the empty chamber of his gut. 

His eyebrow ticks up as he sees the baking sheet on the counter, covered by one of their dish towels. A small note rests on top of it. Dean picks it up, immediately recognizing Cas’ tidy, blocky handwriting. 

_Dean--You’ll have to let me know if these are any good. If not, then I guess we know what we need to work on. =)_

It’s the smiley face that undoes Dean. The thought of Cas, serious and deadpan, sitting down and writing out that note and feeling the need to sketch out a smiley face is enough to make Dean weak in the knees. He flips the towel off the pan, nodding in approval when he looks at the surface of the brownies. They don’t look burnt, which is a point in Cas’ favor. 

Dean takes out one of their knives and cuts a goodly sized square out of the center. If Sam were here, then he would bitch, but Sam’s not here. He takes a hesitant bite and then another, less hesitant bite. Miracle of miracles, Cas managed to bake a decent set of brownies. 

Dean looks down at the note while he eats the brownie that Cas made him, and feels like the scum of the earth. Even if Cas isn’t Emmanuel, he’s still an overwhelmingly decent person who checks on their sick roommate and makes him not terrible brownies. And Dean… Dean is the piece of shit who hides in his room and dreams of putting his dirty hands on pure things. 

The sweetness of the brownie turns to tar in his mouth. Dean forces it down and then reaches up into the cabinet. His fingers find an almost full bottle of whiskey, a prize from his and Cas’ last shopping trip (the one where he got caught up with the idea of simple routines with Cas, to the point that he completely slipped and called Cas his _boyfriend_ and tried to kiss him through the mask like a fucking idiot). Dean clutches the bottle to his chest like the best kind of security blanket. He collapses into the cushions with a loud sigh, a marionette without its strings. 

A faint hint of a breeze tickles his cheek. Cas must have left the window open by accident. Dean doesn’t know why he opens up the windows instead of just changing the thermostat, but who is he to question Cas’ weird habits? He shoots a listless glare at the four inches of space between the sill and bottom of the window. He could get up and close the window, but that would require moving, and the whiskey bottle cradled in his elbow demands his immediate attention. 

Since moving in with Cas, Dean’s alcohol consumption has been cut down to a respectable few fingers of whiskey per night, save in case of emergencies. It’s not that Cas has ever expressed disapproval of his habits or asked him to stop. It’s more the careful way he doesn’t say anything, or the dull thunk of the glasses as he puts them back on the shelf. For the first time since he was old enough to fake his way into a free drink, Dean felt the slow tendrils of shame curling around his chest as Cas rinsed out his empty bottles before putting them into recycling. 

But that was before. In quarantine, with Cas only a few feet away but miles apart, the rules are liable to change. Dean twists the lid off the bottle and takes a grateful swallow. The liquid burns on the way down, but it’s a familiar and welcome pain. He takes another swallow, relaxing as numbness settles into his fingers. 

He loses track of time, alternating deep swallows of whiskey with melancholy bouts of staring out the window. Part of his brain screams at him to do _something--_ read a book, watch TV, play on his phone--but the other part of his brain is content to languish like a heroine in a Victorian novel, gazing out the window at the unchanging skyscape. He watches the sun travel across the skyline as the shadows lengthen across the apartment. Cas never comes out of his office, the volume in the bottle decreases, and Dean’s apathy multiplies until he’s crushed under its weight. 

The horror of soft jazz finally gets him moving. One of their neighbors has their window open and is blasting soft jazz out of his apartment at the same volume usually reserved for something with a hell of a bass drop. His lethargy disappears in a white flash of irritation as Dean scrambles off the couch and heads for his speakers. 

He spends several moments impotently fumbling with a vinyl before he gives up and connects his phone to the speakers. This proves much easier to accomplish. Several seconds later, _Thunderstruck_ blares out of the speakers. Happy with his accomplishment, Dean grins, only to freeze as, inexplicably, the wailing saxophone notes carry up to the window. 

“What the hell,” he mutters, baffled. Not to be outdone, he does the only thing that makes sense: he starts to drag the table which the speakers are held to the window. He’s probably gouging a hell of scrape mark across the hardwood floor, not to mention that the exertion makes the whole room spin unpleasantly around him, but those are minor concerns. What’s more important is that, after a little struggling, he gets the table and the speakers exactly where he wants them: blasting out of the window, so the whole neighborhood can experience the musical stylings of one Mr. Brian Johnson. 

Bolstered by the chorus, Dean coasts on his endorphins. He mouths the lyrics while shredding a pretty sweet solo on air guitar. He whirls around, which is right about the time he catches sight of Castiel. 

Dean manages not to trip over his feet, which is a noteworthy feat, even as embarrassment floods through his body. Cas, kind soul that he is, chooses not to comment on either Dean’s performance or his subsequent clumsiness. He does glance at the speakers, now blaring _Immigrant Song_ (Dean’s got a lot of music downloaded and Soft Jazz Bastard deserves to hear every bit of it), and raises an eyebrow. 

“Are we having a party that I didn’t know about?” The music’s so loud that Cas has to almost shout to be heard. 

Dean flushes, because Cas has that ability to make him feel wrong-footed and stupid, even when he doesn’t mean to. Especially when he doesn’t mean to. He manages to get himself righted and lurch over to Cas, so that he’s within less than shouting distance. “You left the window open,” he says, by way of explanation and accusation. “Some asshole was playing his music way too loud.” 

From the look on Cas’ face, Dean can tell that his logic is possibly flawed, but he can’t find the error. Cas phrases his next question so carefully that it’s obvious he’s seen the mostly empty whiskey bottle perched precariously on the edge of the couch. 

“Why didn’t you just shut the window if it was bothering you?” 

Dean blinks as he considers the question. The answer comes to him in a flash of brilliance. “Because he was playing shitty music for everyone to hear. Soft jazz, Cas. It was awful. Our neighbors deserve to hear some good music.” 

Castiel appears to consider this, though Dean’s not sure how much thought he really gives to the conundrum. For his own part, Dean’s too focused on examining the tiny little line that appears on Cas’ forehead whenever he knits his eyebrows together. He wants to press his lips to that line and smooth it away. 

“You realize that at this rate everyone on our block is going to hear good music.” Dean nods, glad that Cas has finally come around to his way of thinking. “Including our landlord.” 

Dean frowns. His landlord (some douchey Brit, name of Crawley, or Crow-feet, or something) has indeed made strongly worded suggestions about the level of noise which is appropriate for a building filled with ‘dedicated professionals’. 

“Fuck him,” Dean says, with a reckless sense of glee. “Come on, Cas,” he urges. On a whim, before he can stop himself, he reaches out to tug at Cas’ wrist, pulling him out of the kitchen. He looks to the speakers, mostly so he can pretend he didn’t see the swift flash of surprise in Cas’ eyes (it’s surprise, it has to be, what else could it be other than surprise), as he leads him to the living area. A quick shove of his toe sends their coffee table sliding a few inches across the floor, leaving behind another lovely scratch in the hardwood. 

Dean doesn’t have to turn around to know that Cas is leveling a fearsome glare towards his back. Cas is probably entitled to his irritation, but if he starts on a tirade, then Dean’s going to lose his buzz, which means all of his pre-whiskey thoughts will come rocketing back in full force. Like this, he’s pliable and happy, just blitzed enough to not concentrate on being miserable, and just sober enough to remember he has to be careful. 

(Cas is in love with him, what the hell is he supposed to do with that information, what happens when the person you love loves you back, he’s never really had experience with this situation before, too accustomed to learning the shape of someone else’s back as they walk out the door to ever wonder what it might look like if they were to stay instead, when Cas says that he loves him it must just be a precursor to _goodbye_ , so Cas can’t love him because Cas needs to _stay)_

“You’ve been working too hard,” Dean shouts, his thoughts obediently shying away from whatever Cas might have been working on (his article about Jess or spilling his guts to millions of people over the Internet all the while leaving Dean out of the loop?). “You need to unwind. Relax.” 

Cas’ skeptical hum is lost to the opening chords of _Rock of Ages_. “This is how you relax? Noise violation and annoying the neighbors?”

Dean recognizes that particular tone in Cas’ voice. It’s Cas’ _I think I’ve had enough of this foolishness and I’m going to leave now_ tone. It’s the tone that signals the end to any kind of fun. 

“Ok, fine.” Dean walks over to the window and closes it with one deft motion before he cuts the volume by half. He looks at Cas, a triumphant smile on his face. He can feel the horrible clarity of sobriety tickling at the edges of his brain and he tries to chase it away with aggressive cheerfulness. “See? Nothing to worry about!” 

Cas’ face wobbles, wavering between amusement and annoyance. Dean’s heart performs a corresponding little wiggle, his emotions twisting to the exact angles of Cas’ mouth. “I thought you weren’t feeling good,” he finally says. Dean’s heart sinks. “That’s what you said last night.” 

He shrugs and forces his mouth wider, until his cheeks hurt with the force of his false smile. “Feeling better now.” He doesn’t miss the slow sideways slide of Cas’ eyes to the bottle on the couch. Dean tries to shift and block Cas’ view without making it obvious. He doesn’t want to talk about it or see the thin slice of worry in Cas’ eyes. 

“Come on,” he insists, taking a few steps backward. “Have a little fun.” 

Cas gives him a dubious look, like he’s contemplating the meaning of the word. “And how would you suggest that?” 

“See, maybe you don’t know this, because all you listen to is your chanty monks and your weird indie crap, but normal music has a beat. It uses instruments and you can sometimes even dance to it.” 

Cas’ expression changes from doubtful to comically horrified. “Dance.” His eyebrows raise to truly dizzying heights as he looks at Dean. “You’re suggesting that I dance.” 

Dean didn’t mean to suggest that, but it looks like his stupid mouth and his stupid brain have teamed up to get the better of him once more. Now he’s in a quandary. Does he admit that he was talking out of his ass and accept the fact that Cas will inevitably retreat back to his side of the apartment? Or does he bend to the inevitable humiliation of accepting the inadvertent gauntlet which Cas has thrown down? 

“What else would you do to music?” 

The song changes to something slower and sweeter. Dean recognizes the song, wistful and yearning, as the airy chords fill the apartment. 

_If the sun refused to shine, I would still be loving you_

(So fucking stupid, he needs to go right the fuck to his room and sleep off this sudden wave of bravery, he needs to drink the last bits of the whiskey so he can forget he ever contemplated tracing the line of Cas’ lips with his tongue. He needs to forget the tenderness lurking behind Cas’ eyes because if he remembers that then he’ll lose whatever willpower which was keeping him away from Cas.)

_When mountains crumble to the sea, there will still be you and me_

Cas takes a step forward, his chin raised in an almost challenge. Dean represses the urge to run screaming for the hills and meets Cas head-on. He holds out his hand, palm up. Sparks ignite and dance across his skin as Cas places his hand overtop his. He hesitates for just a second before he laces their fingers together. Cas meets his eyes, calm and steady, and never wavers or pulls away. 

Dean’s heart hammers in his chest as Cas steps closer to him. His free hand settles on Dean’s waist, fingers splaying wide. Dean feels as though he’s been branded. He thinks if he were to pull up his shirt, he would see the whole of Cas’ hand, burned red into his skin. Surprisingly, the thought of having a permanent remembrance of Cas fills him with a small shiver of delight. 

As if possessed, Dean watches his hand rise to rest tentatively between Cas’ shoulders. He can feel the shifting of Cas’ muscles against his palm. His mouth runs dry as Cas shuffles forward, close enough that their knees bump together. 

There’s no mistaking what they’re doing. Falling asleep on the couch, sure, no one can really control where their body lands once gravity and slumber take over, but dancing? Dancing is inherently romantic, hands clasped together, faces turned towards each other, bodies moving to the same rhythm. Dean feels his pulse in his fingertips where they press gently against Cas. Cas slowly turns and just like that, they’re dancing. 

Dean’s breath catches in his throat. His eyes drift shut as he tilts his head towards Cas. This close he can smell the clean citrus and honey of Cas’ shampoo. He wants to remember every bit of this, impress upon his memory the exact shape of Cas’ nose and cheeks as he inclines his head towards Dean. Their world shrinks to a small circle as they turn, with only the dim lamp in the corner of the room to illuminate their path. The darkness softens their harsh edges to the point where, if he tries hard enough, Dean can almost believe his flaws are obscured. 

He knows the lyrics to _Thank You_. He knows what Robert Plant is crooning about and in the relative silence of the room, there’s not a chance that Cas doesn’t hear the lyrics. Dean’s heart jumps to his throat as he looks down to find Cas’ eyes staring at him. 

_For you to me are the only one_

“Cas,” Dean whispers. The single syllable falls from his lips, both plea and warning. Cas gazes at him, his eyes huge in the darkness. Their feet barely shift against the floor as they sway in time to the music. Cas’ hand is warm in his. The click of Dean’s swallow echoes through the room. 

“Dean,” Cas replies, his normally deep voice turned into gravel. The rumble of it is transferred from Cas’ chest to his, and his blood tries to vibrate along the same frequency. Everything in him screams _Cas Cas Cas_ as Dean falls further into his orbit. 

“Cas, we need…” Dean’s voice falls away in a murmur as his eyes flick back and forth between Cas’ eyes and lips. The part of his brain screaming for him to escape grows smaller and more insignificant by the moment, overtaken by the part which notes the thin ring of blue around blown pupils. Dean’s eyes are fixed on the swell of his lower lip, where the tip of Cas’ tongue darts out to wet the pink flesh. 

Cas tilts his head, the angle corresponding perfectly to Dean’s. He presses up as Dean leans down to close the inch wide gap between them. There’s a thin shred of a second where Dean stands outside his body-- _is this really his life is this really happening two years he’s wanted this moment is this really it--_ and then his lips are pressed against Cas’. 

Constellations burst in his stomach and he tastes stardust when he takes Cas’ lower lip between his. Fabric shifts under his touch as he drags his hand up from Cas’ shoulders to cup the back of his neck, angling his head so he can better taste him. Cas’ hand dips beneath the hem of his shirt to touch bare skin, his touch like fire against Dean’s skin. A hint of teeth scrape over his lower lip and Dean whimpers a soft noise into Cas’ mouth. 

Ecstasy sings through his blood as two years of longing and waiting culminates in Cas’ tongue sweeping across the seam of his lips. Dean’s fingers find their way to the baby soft hair at the nape of Cas’ neck while Cas’ hand tightens around his. It’s everything he could have wanted, Cas’ scent in his nose, Cas’ soft exhalations in his ears, Cas’ taste lingering on his lips. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes, his mind caught in a whirlwind of happiness and disbelief. It draws him down, down, until all he can see are Cas’ wide eyes. “Oh, Cas, baby.” 

And then Castiel takes a careful step away. 

He rips his hands away from Dean, leaving him frozen and bereft. Dean sways, caught between his yearning to be close to Cas and his sudden desire to flee. The whiskey hits him full force, turning his knees wobbly and his vision blurry. His stomach churns as Cas remains a careful arm’s reach away. 

“Cas,” Dean whispers. The world turns grey and ragged at the edges as Cas looks just past his shoulder and refuses to meet his eyes. “Cas, what’s wrong?” 

Cas blinks furiously. His eyes dart to Dean before he looks out the window at the sparse lights in the city’s skyline. “We can’t… Not like this. I’m sorry,” and the kicker is, he really does look like he’s sorry, big blue eyes shining at Dean and mouth curved open in a vulnerable circle. “I’m so sorry. I have to…” He looks helplessly at Dean, weight shifting. He’s a magnet caught between two poles, drawn to and repelled by Dean. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he mutters miserably. 

Dean stares after him as Castiel disappears into his room. The door closes behind him, clicking like the closing of a tomb. Dean waits, maybe for minutes, maybe for hours, but Cas never emerges. 

He feels hollowed out, like someone took a rusty spoon to his innards and scraped him clean until there was nothing left but a bare husk. He swallows down the disappointment and hurt (it was always going to end this way, how stupid was he to think otherwise, _of course_ Cas is running away, Cas can taste the poison on Dean’s lips, same as Dean can taste the burst of rain and spring on Cas’, and Cas has taken the self-preservation steps that Dean seems incapable of taking) and walks in careful, measured steps to the speakers. He turns them off, and the silence of the room presses in around him, so thick it could choke him. 

When he turns, the lamplight catches the edges of the whiskey bottle, the glass gleaming seductively. He considers it--there’s only a little bit left, but it might be enough for him to grasp at a buzz. His fingers twitch towards the bottle but then his stomach performs a mighty lurch, sourness rising up his throat. Dean’s hand stays close to his side as he turns towards his room. 

He strips down to his boxers and climbs into bed. Numbness spreads through his body, turning him cold. He tries to hold onto the memory of warmth, the soft golden glow that arose from every place Castiel touched him, but now all he knows is the cold darkness. 

Dean closes his eyes and sleeps. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't kill me! It will get better, I promise!


	9. crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He and Dean are ghosts, haunting the 2100 square feet of the apartment and yet never making a mark. The only hints he gets of Dean are the incidental sounds a body makes by living: opening and closing drawers and cabinets, floorboards creaking under feet. Castiel finds himself missing the sound of Dean’s voice, his tuneless humming as he cleans, even the discordant clash of sound he likes to call music. He doesn’t dare try to emerge from his room, however. Dean’s anger seeps through the walls until it fills the whole apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments give me life, just know. 
> 
> Also, I anticipate one, maaaaybe two more chapters before we're done with this saga. Thanks for hanging in there.

~*~*~*~*~*~

**day twenty-seven**

  
  


Ghosts. 

He and Dean are ghosts, haunting the 2100 square feet of the apartment and yet never making a mark. The only hints he gets of Dean are the incidental sounds a body makes by living: opening and closing drawers and cabinets, floorboards creaking under feet. Castiel finds himself missing the sound of Dean’s voice, his tuneless humming as he cleans, even the discordant clash of sound he likes to call music. He doesn’t dare try to emerge from his room, however. Dean’s anger seeps through the walls until it fills the whole apartment. 

Castiel stays in his room as long as possible, but eventually the hollow ache of his stomach forces him into the kitchen. Castiel sneaks out, sliding like an intruder through once welcome places. He ransacks the pantry, looking for protein bars, crackers, and chips--anything portable with a basic nutrition value. Throughout his raiding, he keeps an ear out for Dean, but he never hears anything. The few times he dares to look at Dean’s door, it remains an impenetrable barrier, keeping Dean away from the rest of the world. 

Dean’s door never opens, and Castiel retreats back to his room, one of two ghosts haunting the apartment, hoping only to be seen.    
  


\---

**day twenty-eight**

When Castiel wakes, he does so into a world that’s just as bleak as it was when he finally managed to fall asleep the night before. 

His body aches from a night spent tossing and turning. His head aches from too little sleep and too much anxiety, and his heart aches from the memory of Dean’s face, vulnerable and betrayed, as Castiel turned his back on him. Castiel’s had more miserable nights (the night after he left home certainly wasn’t a piece of cake and the night after he received news of his father’s passing was long and excruciating), but the past two nights will no doubt find a ranking place in his Top Twenty. 

His fingertips ghost over his lips. If he closes his eyes, he can put himself back in time, for the full two minutes where the stars aligned and the world was perfect. Those brief seconds where Dean’s hands were against his body, cradling his head and clasping his hand. Castiel’s breath catches as he remembers the delicate way Dean took his lower lip between his and the soft groans he’d released into Castiel’s mouth. He’s never quite held with organized religion, but he supposes that feeling Dean’s lips on his is probably the closest to nirvana he’ll ever get. 

Of course, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Having achieved pure bliss, Castiel is now subjected to abject misery. The look of betrayal on Dean’s face, his arms dangling limply at his sides as Castiel backed away from him, remains with him, etched onto the back of his eyelids. 

Pulling away from Dean was like ripping away a piece of himself, but he’d had to do it. He’d tasted the whiskey on Dean’s lip, honey bitter and cloying. Long after Castiel had retreated back to his room, the taste remained, and he’d spent the rest of the night sucking his lower lip into his mouth to chase the memory of it. But he’d known what the mostly empty whiskey bottle on the couch meant. If it took three-quarters of a bottle for Dean to kiss him, then it was clear that Dean never really wanted him. Castiel wanted Dean, but not when he was so drunk he couldn’t tell up from down or Castiel from any other person. 

The morning sun beats incessantly through the window and Castiel suppresses a groan in his pillow. As awful as the night was, it had been comforting, as it had absolved him from the need for action. Now the sun rises, and with it, the horrible sinking realization of what he has to do. 

He can’t go through another day like yesterday, where it felt like he was fading into the background. Several times he’d had to pinch himself, just to make sure he was still real. He’d known yesterday what he needed to do, except like a coward, he’d put it off. Now, today, there’s no other option for him. He needs to talk to Dean. 

It takes him an eternity to shower and dress. Absurdly, he spends five minutes looking through his clothes to find an appropriate shirt (Dean has seen him wrapped in nothing more than a towel, and Dean has a nasty habit of eating breakfast in his robe and boxers, so the dithering over which shirt to wear is pointless, but Castiel still looks through his drawers three times before he settles on a dark navy shirt, which Gabriel told him once  _ brings out your eyes).  _ He tugs at the hem several times to adjust how the shirt falls against his body, before he realizes exactly how stupid he’s being. 

The trek from his room to Dean’s is interminable. Castiel takes in every detail of the apartment: the stain on the kitchen island, where he put down a baking sheet straight out of the oven (how was he supposed to know it would burn the countertop?), the new scratches on their floors, courtesy of Dean’s pique of temper last night, the one window that gets stuck halfway, which Dean always forgets when the seasons trip into each other and he starts his habit of opening windows instead of using their air conditioner. These tiny imperfections stamp his and Dean’s presence on every part of the apartment, turning empty spaces into a home, a place that Castiel misses when he’s gone. He wants to cling to these details, dig his fingernails into them until someone tells him that he’s damaged them too badly, and now he’ll have to keep them. 

He knocks on Dean’s door. 

His knuckles sting from the contact. He imagines he can see their faint imprint on the cheap imitation wood of the door. The apartment holds its breath, affronted that Castiel would dare break the fragile peace. Finally, an answer comes from the bowels of Dean’s room. 

“What?”

Castiel winces at the irritation in Dean’s voice. He’d expected no less, but he couldn’t stop hoping for better. He erases any hints of inflection in his voice as he answers, “It’s me. I was just wondering, if you’re up… Can we talk?” 

At first, he thinks Dean is going to ignore him. While not necessarily the most mature decision, Dean would certainly be within his rights to make it. But then he answers, anger clipping each word short, turning them into sharp little bites. 

“I’m not really in a talking kind of mood, Cas.” 

“You don’t have to talk; you can just listen.” 

“I’m not really in a listening mood either.” 

“Please, Dean. Just let me explain, and I promise… I won’t bother you again.” 

Castiel ruthlessly suppresses the instinctive whimper which rises at the words. He knows the likely consequence for his explanation. He’s experienced it before, until his heart was shredded raw enough that he finally put his foot down and said  _ enough.  _

Curious, experimental, but ultimately straight boys, don’t much care for having to look at their mistakes after they’re made. This conversation only ends one way: Dean asks him, either kindly or not, to get his stuff together and find another place to live. The smart thing, at least from a view of self-preservation, would be to hide from this conversation as long as possible. But Castiel can’t bear the thought of Dean not  _ knowing  _ exactly how wonderful he is, exactly how much he’s wanted. 

Taking a chance, Castiel tries the door. It’s not locked, and opens smoothly under his touch. Castiel steps into Dean’s room, squinting in the darkness created by Dean’s blackout curtains. Only a thin sliver of light sneaks in from the parting of the fabric, but it’s enough to reveal Dean’s body. 

Castiel’s tongue cleaves to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth. Dean is on his stomach, arms slotted neatly under his pillow. His bare torso reveals miles of pale skin, illuminated by the weak sunlight. The sharp wings of his shoulders lead into the soft curves of his ribs. Castiel’s eyes are drawn to the sheet bunching up at the swell of his ass, right at the tantalizing dip of his spine. Laid out like this, Dean is a feast, one which Castiel wants nothing more than to devour. 

He has to dig his fingernails into his palms to focus his attention. The click of his swallow echoes through the room. Dean lifts his head from the pillow, tension running along his muscles. “Dean,” Castiel says quietly, though it still sounds too loud for the close environment of the room. 

In one graceful motion, Dean flips onto his back. The sheets twist around his waist (while a quick flash of disappointment shoots through Castiel, he’s also relieved to see Dean’s at least wearing his boxers). Dean’s face twists in a thundercloud expression of irritation, barely visible through the thick darkness of the room. 

“Get out, Cas,” he orders. His voice, striving for calm, wobbles at the edges. “I’m serious. I don’t want to talk, and I sure as hell don’t want you in my room.” 

Castiel’s heart sinks down to his knees as his worst fears come true, right before his very eyes. Caught between his desire to honor Dean’s wishes and his desire to explain, Castiel falters. He looks towards the door and the peace it represents, before he looks back at Dean’s glower. He plants his feet and forces his face into a semblance of calm. 

“Dean, we need to talk--”

“No, the hell we don’t,” Dean snaps. He twists the sheets in his fingers as he stares down at his hands. “I asked you to talk the other night, and you weren't interested. It’s a little late now.” 

“Dean, at that moment, you weren’t in a position to talk,” Castiel says. A thin slice of desperation sneaks out through his tone, ripping through the tense fabric of the room. The first hints of defeat start to nip at his heels; the sense of fighting a losing battle surrounds him. Castiel pushes on. He has a faint hint of foreboding: if he and Dean don’t speak right now, then they never will. Their kiss will continue to fester between them, a suppurating wound never dressed properly, until it finally kills their relationship. 

Not for the first time, Castiel looks at Dean, and sees someone that he’s already lost. 

“The fuck are you talking about, Cas?” The anger has faded from Dean’s voice, and now he just sounds very tired. Heedless of his state of undress, Dean scrubs his hand over his face. “I wasn’t in a position? No one was choking me and my lips weren’t sewn shut, so from my standpoint, it was all good.” 

Thick anxiety rises in Castiel’s throat. His heart beats a quick, irregular rhythm in his chest and he can feel his palms start to sweat. This isn’t going how he anticipated. He’d assumed Dean would be angry, but he thought most of that anger would be indignation at Castiel’s presumptuousness. Instead, most of his anger seems either turned inward towards himself, or directed towards the fact that Castiel  _ didn’t _ push harder. 

“You weren’t all good,” Castiel says carefully. He needs to navigate this conversational minefield, but it’s difficult when he doesn’t know what traps to be wary of. “Physically yes, you were perfectly capable of having a conversation, but you’d been drinking.” He winces at the vaguely preachy tone of his voice. “You weren’t really up for making any serious decisions.” 

“Ok, I  _ really _ don’t want to talk about this.” Dean’s voice is steel and titanium, and all materials which resist change and destruction. Crushed under its weight, Castiel looks longingly at the door. It was a mistake to do this; he knows now, but he can’t stop now. 

“Just to say, if you think I was drunk, then you don’t know me as well as you seem to think you do.” Dean turns his face towards the window, deliberately hiding his expression from Castiel. “I was a little tipsy, sure. But I wasn’t fucking sloppy drunk, or whatever else you’re trying to say.” 

“Dean.” Castiel takes a careful step forward. He approaches his next question with all the caution of a paranoid bomb squad. “Why are you angry?”

Dean scoffs. He folds his arms over his chest, and his gaze remains fixed on the window. Stubborness is stamped on his posture and in the barely visible clench of his jaw. He clings to his obstinate denial like a lifejacket, not realizing that it drags him down into the water. Castiel wants to rip it away from him, but all he can do is wait for Dean to relent. Finally, Dean reluctantly drags his eyes to Castiel. “You kissed me,” he finally says, voice flayed open and raw. 

An abrupt, painful lump rises in Castiel’s throat. All he can do is nod in agreement. It seems petty to mention that their kiss was a mutual affair; Dean doesn’t want to be reminded of his own participation. He just wants to put the blame on Castiel, so as to leave his own conscience clear. 

When he sees the bob of Castiel’s head, Dean’s shoulders curve inward. Once again, Castiel has the strange feeling of the world shifting underneath him. That sense of wrongness only strengthens when he finally determines the odd meaning behind Dean’s body language. Lurking underneath the anger is something hurt and vulnerable, something so fragile that Dean can only approach it sideways. 

A fierce, wild hope flares in Castiel’s chest, strong enough to send tremors shaking through his body. 

“You kissed me and then you left,” Dean finally whispers. The words are small and frail, dragged out of a secret place within Dean, leaving him hollow and slumped.

When he was a kid, pumped full of sugar and grease at a county fair, Castiel had made the mistake of allowing Gabriel to talk him into going through a funhouse. He’d made it halfway through before he puked, right in front of the forced perspective wall. The optical illusions, the mirrors, and twisting floors had warped his sense of location so much that his body had violently rebelled, leaving his lunch over the floor. 

Now, over twenty years later, Castiel feels very much like he just stepped into another funhouse. Except maybe this time, he’ll get a better ending than sitting down and crying until Gabriel came to find him. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, slowly enough that he can taste every letter on his tongue, “are you upset because I kissed you or because I left?” 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

**day twenty-seven**

Dean needs to leave. 

Social distancing be damned, he needs to put on an actual pair of pants, jump out of his third story window, and nope right the hell out of this conversation. 

But he’s pinned to the spot, butterfly wings on the corkboard, Cas’ eyes boring through him, and he’s asked the question so unambiguously that Dean can’t squirm out of it. He’d felt it yesterday, black ice covering the road and the tires hitting it as the car careened out of control. He’s not sure of the exact labels in this metaphor, but he knows that in this instance, he and Cas are skidding off the road and into the shoulder, right into a tree. 

_ Are you upset because I kissed you or because I left?  _

More than anything, Dean wishes that he’d put a lock on his door so Cas couldn’t enter. Possibly more than that, he wishes that he could go back to that night and stop himself from ever lacing his fingers with Cas’ as he allowed his dreams to get the better of him. But it’s over and done with now, and there’s nothing left but to finally face the music. 

“I mean, it’s kind of rude to kiss and run. Gotta say, that’s not something that happens a lot.” He tries to force a little levity into his voice. Even he can tell that the attempt falls painfully flat. 

He freezes as Castiel steps forward, further into the room, in the exact opposite direction he should be traveling. Dean’s reminded of the little bunnies he and Sam would run across while they were traversing Bobby’s land when they were kids. The rabbits, once they figured out they’d been spotted, would freeze, black eyes wide and unblinking, tiny noses twitching in muted terror as they waited motionlessly for their fate to be decided. 

Dean knows exactly how they felt. 

“I left,” Cas says, some strain his voice (which is unusual, as for a while during the start of their cohabitation, Dean was unsure whether Cas had ever experienced an emotion without the qualifier of  _ mild  _ before it, as in  _ mild  _ disappointment,  _ mild _ enthusiasm), “because I wasn’t sure whether you were capable of making a fully informed decision. I couldn’t take advantage of you if I wasn’t sure that it was something you wanted.” 

Dean doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he feels his thumb skitter against the comforter. He looks longingly at the bedroom window and wonders whether he would die from the fall or just break a few bones. This feels very much like one of those moments which people describe as ‘go big or go home’, which doesn’t make much sense in the circumstances because either way, he and Cas are going to be right here, except it looks like Cas is going big anyway. 

“And what if…” Dean pauses as thirty years of self-doubt and anxiety crash into him. 

(It’s not too late for him to lie; he can laugh the kiss off and pretend it was nothing more than a drunken mistake. He and Cas could try to go back to whatever passes for normal, just with this  _ thing  _ between them both. Lying would mean that Cas could get on with his life, find someone else, someone  _ better,  _ someone who would deserve him. Lying would mean that Cas gets away from Dean relatively unscathed, even as Dean shatters.

He could lie. He could.)

“What if I didn’t want you to leave?” 

Dean feels like each individual word is dragged out of him, like expelling poison from a wound. After the last one falls, he wants to crawl underneath the blankets and hide from Cas’ piercing eyes, but that feels too much like cowardice. He forces himself to stay put, though he has to clasp his hands together to stop them from trembling. 

The light catches Cas’ eyes as he blinks several times in rapid succession. His mouth (don’t think about his mouth, don’t think about how his lips felt, or the clean taste of him) drops open in a soft, surprised curve. “Dean, what are you…” Cas swallows, tongue coming out to dab at the curve of his lower lip (it’s official, Cas is trying to kill him). “What are you trying to say?” 

Cas is really going to make him say it. If Dean wasn’t quite so gone on him, he might hate him a little. 

“Maybe I didn’t want you to leave.” Since when has speaking been this hard, the words stuttering out of him like stilted, misshapen monsters? Dean’s been talking since he was about nine months old, but it’s now, when he needs the words the most, that they fail him. “Maybe I was enjoying what was happening.” 

He’s bare and vulnerable, exposing all of his soft spaces so Cas can run his fingers over them. Having left himself open, Dean’s not quite sure what to expect, but it’s certainly not for Cas’ face to blanch with something resembling pain. 

“Dean, I have to tell you something.” 

Dean’s heart sinks. He knows this next verse of the song all too well. This is the part where Cas tells him  _ thanks but no thanks,  _ that he’s had enough time to think and he’s decided that he wants a real adult in his life, not a fuckup who’s just managed to fake it well enough to fool everyone. Dean tries to interrupt Cas, but Cas is an unstoppable force. 

“I should have told you earlier, but I didn’t know how to say it. I just… Dean, you’re one of the best people that I’ve had the chance to meet, and I…” Castiel sighs in a low huff of frustration. “I just can’t bear the thought of getting to be close to you and then you deciding that this isn’t what you want.” 

Individually, the words make sense, but Dean doesn’t know how to piece them together into a cohesive whole. In what world would he ever decide he doesn’t want Cas? Is there any version of Dean that wouldn’t want Castiel? 

“The hell are you talking about?” 

Pain and confusion mar Cas’ features, turning his familiar face into a stranger’s, and Dean knows he never wants to see Cas look like that again. “It must be frustrating for you, being stuck here with me and isolated from everyone else in your life. I know that your choices are limited, and that you might be interested in trying something new.” Cas clenches his teeth on a low whine of irritation. Dean stares at him, wondering if Cas is ever going to say something that resembles English. 

“And I can sympathize. Anyone else, I would… But not you. I care too much about you to just be an experiment.” 

All the oxygen leaves the room. Left on half-power, Dean’s brain struggles to make necessary connections, sorting through Cas’ words like a historian cataloguing inexplicable artifacts. He finally lands on one word that sticks out, like a flashing sign. “Experiment?” His forehead wrinkles as he tries to make sense of that word. Finally, he arrives at a possible meaning and with, hope springs fresh in his chest. 

“Cas… You know I’m bi, right?” 

The look on Cas’ face tells Dean that Cas was indeed  _ not _ privy to that fact. 

“I mean, I never made a really big deal about it, but I didn’t really try to hide it either.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, Dean can’t help but smile. “Cas, did you think I was trying to use you as my gay experiment?” 

He can’t see them in the dim lighting, but Dean would be willing to bet that Cas’ cheeks are flaming red. “When you say it like that, you make it sound much more ridiculous than it did in my head.” 

“Cas, you know I could never do that to you, right? I couldn’t--I  _ wouldn’t _ \--use you like that. And anyone who would is a piece of shit.” A tendril of worry curls around Dean’s spine when Cas doesn’t answer. “Cas, you know you deserve better, right?” He’s tiptoeing around the truth and venturing into dangerous territory, but he can’t bear the thought of someone putting their filthy fingerprints on Cas and discarding him in the morning. “You deserve everything.” 

He catches the quick flick of Cas’ eyes then, hears the sharp inhalation. “And what about you?” The floor creaks under his feet as he takes another step. “What do you deserve?” 

Dean laughs, even as goosebumps flood across his skin. “A good slice of pie? A decent raise? A Dr. Sexy marathon that leaves out the weird ghost episodes?” 

( _ You,  _ he doesn’t say,  _ happiness,  _ he doesn’t say. He doesn’t deserve those, he  _ wants  _ them, and wanting and getting are hardly ever the same thing. Good people don’t get what they deserve and bad people don’t get enough of what they deserve, and that’s just the way the world works. But if Dean was allowed to say, then he would say,  _ I deserve as much of you as you’ll let me have.) _

He waits for Cas to laugh (Cas is usually good for a pity laugh if nothing else), but Cas leaves him hanging. “Dean. If you don’t want this, if you…” Cas’ voice breaks, but he forces himself onward, “if you don’t want  _ me, _ then you have to tell me.” 

“Cas, it’s not that. God, trust me when I say it’s not you.” Every part of Dean screams to go to Cas. He hates hearing that shredded raw tone in Cas’ voice, hates himself more for putting it there. 

“Then why?” Cas takes another step forward, and then another, until his knees press against the mattress. His eyes shine in the darkness. “I want this. I want you, but I won’t force you into something if you don’t want it as well.” 

Cas extends his hand, palm up, towards Dean. There are a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t, but Dean listens to none of them as he reaches out and wraps his fingers around Cas’. Cas’ hand is warm, his skin smooth and uncalloused. Dean traces the creases in his palm, the life line, fate line, heart line. Dean presses his thumb against Cas’ pulse point, strong and steady, much like Cas himself, and listens to the tiny hitch in Cas’ breathing. 

Dean tilts Cas’ hand, bringing his palm to his lips. He presses a soft kiss to Cas’ palm, breathing in a ragged gasp as Cas’ fingers caress his cheek. Something rips open in Dean’s chest, aching and sweet, as a hot prickling starts behind his eyes. “It’s not that. God Cas, it’s not you; there’s nothing wrong with you.” 

“Then what?” Cas’ voice wobbles, his control fraying. 

Dean hides his face in Cas’ palm, pressing another kiss to the heel of his thumb. The tip of his nose presses into the hard cartilage. “It’s me,” he finally confesses. He closes his eyes and speaks truth into Cas’ skin. “I’m bad news, Cas, always have been. Every time I try something, it ends badly. And I can’t do that to you. You deserve so much better than me.” 

Cas pulls his hand away so cleanly that Dean’s fingers clench on air before he realizes his loss. He doesn’t have time to mourn. With a grace Dean can never hope to emulate, Cas swings on top of the bed to sit smoothly on Dean’s legs. 

Any protest he might have made catches in Dean’s throat as Cas leans forward. This close, his eyes are gorgeous, intent and furious. Dean thinks that if he truly wanted to, Cas could look straight through him. “Let me get this straight,” Cas begins, wrapping his fingers around Dean’s wrists. His thumb rubs idly at the smooth skin. “You want me. I want you.” 

Dean would argue, but he knows that if he opens his mouth the only thing which will escape is a needy moan. His blood boils, rising to meet Cas’ touch. His ears are disconnected from his brain, yet still Cas’ voice echoes through his skull. “And you’re keeping us both from being happy because you think you’re not good enough for me?” 

“It’s the truth,” Dean finally says through gritted teeth. He doesn’t know why Cas is being so obtuse about this. Surely he remembers Lisa and the mess Dean created in the wake of her leaving. “Cas, if we do this, it’s not going to end well. You’re going to get hurt, something bad’s going to happen--” 

“Dean.” Cas reaches out to cradle Dean’s face in gentle hands. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough, and Dean finds himself in danger of hyperventilating. He wants to beg Cas to run. He wants to beg Cas to stay. 

Cas’ thumb strokes over Dean’s cheek. The whorls of Cas’ fingerprints catch on his rough morning stubble. He speaks, and from his voice rings more conviction than Dean’s ever felt. “You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met. You’re one of the best things to ever happen to me. You are brilliant.” Gentle hands tilt Dean’s head as soft lips brush over his forehead. “You are intelligent.” A kiss on his right temple. “You are kind.” A kiss on his left temple. 

Between the onslaught of Cas’ lips, hands, and words, Dean is falling apart. Cas’ capable hands are the only things keep him from shattering into a thousand pieces. “And you are the most foolish, infuriating man that I’ve ever met.” 

“Cas.” Dean wraps his fingers around Cas’ wrist in a loose grip. He never thinks of pulling away. “Cas, I can’t.” 

Cas hums as he brushes his nose over Dean’s cheek. He pecks a quick kiss just under Dean’s eye. Dean whines, low and desperate in his throat. “I’ve spent so long pining over you, and now, to have you here… It’s more than I ever dreamed of. I’ve spent so long convincing myself that you could never want me, that I ignored everything else.” Cas’ grin is enough to light up the whole room, and it draws a Pavlovian smile out of Dean. “I’m afraid we’ve both been unbelievably stupid.” 

Cas ducks his head. The tip of his nose touches Dean in the barest hint of a kiss. He’s so close Dean can feel the warm puffs of his breath, so close that every molecule of him strains forward to meet Cas. His lips ache from the tease of proximity. “Dean.” With that single word, Cas’ voice turns raw, as desire and need leaks from every syllable. “If you really don’t want this, if you really don’t want me, then tell me. I would never want to hurt you.” Cas’ swallows, his breath ragged at the edge. From where they’re pressed into his skin, Dean feels the small tremor shake through Cas. “I love you too much to ever hurt you.” 

At Cas’ words, Dean’s heart cracks, only to be caught in Cas’ masterful hands. It’s reformed before he ever has a chance to feel the pain. “God, Cas,” he whispers, tracing the strong line of Cas’ arms. A helpless grin spreads across his face, followed by a soft burble of laughter. “You asshole, you stole my line.” 

“Good answer,” Cas breathes, lips curving in a smile even as he dips his head to kiss Dean. 

Dean’s expecting a harsh, brutal kiss, one that reflects the swirling mass of emotions rolling in his chest. Instead, Cas’ lips are whisper soft as he nuzzles them against Dean’s. One brush, then another, and another, until Dean whimpers with need. His hands slide up from Cas’ arms to card through his dark hair, tugging lightly on the strands. Cas gasps against his mouth, then groans when Dean nips at his lower lip. 

Their kisses gain intensity, Cas opening against Dean’s mouth, Cas pressing up against him. Dean hesitantly rolls his hips up, groaning as Cas thoughtlessly grinds down. His hand travels down Cas’ spine, dipping under the hem of his shirt to touch the bare skin of Cas’ back. Cas moans, even as his hand travels down Dean’s chest. His thumb strokes over the taut nub of a nipple before he tweaks it. Dean groans, arching up into Cas’ touch. His dick hardens, straining up to press against the bulge in Cas’ pants. 

Though it nearly kills him to do it, Dean pulls away from Cas’ mouth. Cas chases him, a small whine of loss falling from his lips as Dean remains out of reach. Dean rubs at the bolt of Cas’ jaw, a soft touch meant to soothe and center. “Cas,” he whispers, his voice rough and needy, “Is this too fast?” 

Dean catches the quick roll of Cas’ eyes just before Cas rolls his hips in a filthy grind. His breath catches even as his hips stutter up. “Technically I’ve been waiting two years, so no, I don’t think it’s too fast.” He pauses, uncertainty flashing across his face. “Unless you want to stop.” 

Dean drags Cas’ head down to meet his, even as his hand dips under Cas’ waistband. The sound of Cas’ groan is like a drug and Dean palms at his ass just to hear it again. He drags his lips across the stubbled line of Cas’ jaw before nipping down the long line of his throat. He pulls at the neck of Cas’ shirt to reveal more skin; part of him wants it off to bare Cas to his eyes, but the other, larger part of him, isn’t willing to drag his hands away from Cas even for a second. 

“Two years,” Dean pants, drawing himself away from Cas’ skin for the shortest of seconds. “God, we’re a couple of idiots.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Cas gasps. He cranes his head back, allowing Dean to trace the cord of muscle along his neck. “I think that I’m the pinnacle of good reasoning.” 

“Sure.” Speaking becomes difficult when Cas rolls his hips and adds a sinful little twist at the end, but Dean perseveres. “You’ve been a bastion of sensible decisions, Mr. Give You a Massage and Pass Out on Top of You.” 

“At least I didn’t invite you to dance with me and then play a slow song.” Cas’ last words disappear in a low groan as Dean bites at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Or call you my boyfriend to a complete stranger in the middle of the grocery store.” 

“You’re complaining about that?” Dean roughly cups the back of Cas’ neck as he rips his hand out of the back of Cas’ pants to work at the fastenings of his pants. 

“Yeah, well, now you can say it and it won’t be a lie.” Cas thoughtlessly utters the words, then freezes as the implication strikes him. His nails dig into Dean’s shoulders, and his eyes are wide and worried. “Unless that’s not something you want.” 

Dean pulls his hands away from Cas’ zipper to rest on his thigh. Theoretically, it’s meant to calm him down, but Dean can’t stop himself from groping at the thick muscle. “Cas, in case you weren’t paying attention, I just told you I loved you, after telling you I’d been pining after you for two years. Call me your boyfriend, call me whatever you want. Just call me yours.” 

Cas’ laugh is a slow thing that grows in volume until it fills the room. He presses his forehead into the crook of Dean’s shoulder, licking over the cord of muscle. “Pulled that line of dialogue straight from Dr. Sexy, huh?” 

Dean ducks his head and takes Cas’ nipple in his mouth as revenge. He flicks his tongue over the tight flesh before he scores his teeth over the nub. The contact is gentle, but it’s enough to have Cas arching into his touch. “It’s true,” Dean whispers, kissing over the steady thud of Dean’s heart. “Cas, I just want to be with you.” 

“Then be with me.” Cas locks eyes with him as he purposefully drags his fingers down Dean’s chest. He pauses at the waist of Dean’s boxers and waits for Dean to nod before he inches his fingers underneath the elastic waistband. Cas grins as he fishes Dean out of his boxers, licking at his palm before he wraps his fingers around Dean. 

Dean groans at the touch as his hips start to roll into Cas’ grip. Need roars through him, flamed into an inferno at the feeling of Cas’ eyes raking over his body. A tight coil of pleasure curls through his groin, and Dean fumbles with the fastening on Cas’ pants. “God, Cas. I’ve gotta--I need to touch you. Need to see you.” 

Due mostly to luck, he manages to undo the button. Cas’ hand only leaves him for the length of time it takes to work his zipper over his straining length. Cas raises up and Dean gracelessly shoves both his pants and boxers down enough to free his leaking cock. 

“Touch me,” Cas groans, biting at Dean’s earlobe and the corner of his jaw. “Please, Dean, just touch me.” 

“Fuck,” Dean pants, his fingers tangling with Cas’ as he brings their cocks together. The slide of hot, slick flesh drags identical moans from both their throats. At first, the drag of Dean’s hand is almost too dry, but precome soon slicks his strokes. “Oh hell, Cas, baby, you don’t have to ask. I’ll always want to touch you.” 

Cas hums, his hips thrusting into their combined grip. “Baby?” he questions, pressing his forehead against Dean’s. 

Dean goes slightly cross-eyed as he looks up at Cas, but the view is worth any strain he might endure. “You don’t like it?” 

A shy smile, incongruous given the circumstances, spreads across Cas’ face. “It’s nice,” he says, tilting his head to kiss Dean again. “It’s cute. I like it.” 

“Yeah, well, now you’ve given me a complex about it,” Dean grumbles. A devilish glint shines in Cas’ eyes as his smile turns sharp at the edges. To forestall any smartass remarks, Dean flicks his thumb over the shiny, flushed head of Cas’ cock. Fascinated, he watches a pearly drop bead at the tip before he catches it with his knuckles. “Fuck, you’re leaking like a faucet,” he whispers, watching his cock slide through Cas’ fist, watching Cas’ cock slide through his fingers. 

“Well, you’re a good inspiration,” Cas replies, voice breathier than Dean’s ever heard it. Dean twists his wrist, thumb sliding over the head of Cas’ dick. Cas muffles a short yelp in Dean’s mouth, teeth grabbing at Dean’s lower lip. “Keep that up, and I’m going to be really embarrassed,” he pants. 

“You’re not the only one,” Dean grunts. Need and glee pump urgency through his veins, and he’s never come this close to the edge from just a handy. His hand gropes at the firm globes of Cas’ ass, urging him to set a quick pace. “Shit, Cas, I’m so fucking close already, you’re so fucking good. God, we’re so stupid; we could have been doing this all along.” 

“Your fault,” Cas whines, and Dean would argue with that interpretation (there are several pieces of evidence which lead to the conclusion that Cas is at least 50% responsible for all their difficulties), but he’s too close to the edge to really care. 

“Cas, I’m gonna…” His groan is lost against Cas’ mouth in a sloppy kiss that’s more them panting in each other’s mouths. He’s hovering on the edge, shaking with the need to come, trembling from the joy of falling apart in Cas’ arms. Dean moans, soft and desperate, as Cas twists his fingers in his hair and bites down his neck. 

Cas’ hand works over Dean, his strokes uncoordinated but still blisteringly good. “Fuck, Dean, come on.” Cas’ growl shoots straight to his dick, the coil of heat curling tighter in the pit of Dean’s belly. “I want to see you, I want to hear you, I want all of it. Come on Dean, just let go.” 

Dean’s never been able to come on command, nor has he ever really been motivated to try, but Cas manages to turn all the rules upside down. Cas kisses him with perfect brutality as he whispers  _ Come  _ into Dean’s mouth. Shouting, Dean shakes against Cas as he obeys and falls apart. 

“God, look at you. So fucking pretty, so fucking hot, jesus, how are you even real,” Cas murmurs. Tender fingers trail over the side of his face and through his hair, gentling him through the aftershocks. He pecks sweet kisses against Dean’s face, even as his hips restlessly thrust into Dean’s slack grip. Summoning all of his strength, Dean makes a fist tight enough for Cas to fuck into and find some relief. 

“Yeah, that’s it Cas, come on,” Dean slurs, his eyes drawn to the slick slide of Cas’ cock in and out of his fist and the flex of his hips as he works himself towards completion. Dean licks at the hollow of Cas’ throat and tastes as his eyes close and his mouth opens in artless pleasure. “Come on, chase it baby, it’s yours.” 

Cas comes with a thin wail, his hips stuttering shallowly into Dean’s fist. Cas trembles as he comes down from the edge, soft little whimpers muffled into Dean’s skin. 

“You’re okay, I’ve got you. You’re all good baby, so fucking good for me.” Dean wraps his arms around Cas, pulling him close as he whispers praise into the sweat damp strands of Cas’ hair. Heedless of the mess between them, Cas slumps forward. His head rests on Dean’s shoulder, sharp nose pressing into Dean’s neck. 

“Shit,” Dean finally says. He can’t remember ever coming that hard from a handjob, so hard that his brain is still short-circuiting. He tugs at the hem of Cas’ shirt, finally trying to get it off. Cas snarls in displeasure, but the sound is weak. Dean eventually maneuvers the garment off Cas’ limp body, and wipes up the mess between them as best he can. 

“Fucking savage,” Cas complains, even as he nuzzles into the crook of Dean’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t see you getting up anytime soon.” Dean shifts into a more comfortable position, while Cas does his best impersonation of an octopus atop him. 

“We're both going to have to get up at some point,” Cas says, but his voice is already thick with impending sleep. 

Dean’s jaw cracks in a yawn as he slides into the pillows and mattress. “Yeah, but not for a while yet. We can afford to take a nap.” His hand rests against the side of Cas’ face, rubbing at the corner of his eye. “You going to be here?” 

“Yeah,” Cas breathes, and he answers in such a way that Dean thinks he understood that Dean meant  _ Am I going to get to see you in the mornings and in the evenings, are you going to be here when I wake up and when I go to sleep, are we going to share our days, are we going to make memories, are we going to laugh and cry, and all the rest?  _ “Yeah,” Cas answers, as he settles his body around Dean’s, “yeah, I’ll be here.” 

Dean pulls Cas close, kissing the soft hair at the top of his head. A question occurs to him, probably one he shouldn’t ask, but one that he can’t stop from asking. 

“Hey, Cas?” A soft hum answers him. “When you said love, did you mean…?” 

Cas pulls away, leaving Dean’s side cold. He has just enough time to curse himself for an idiot, before Cas props himself up on an elbow and leans over him. He traces the lines of Dean’s tattoo, fingertip leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

“Did I mean, am I  _ in _ love with you?” 

“Well... Yeah. It’s fine either way. I just, I just wanted to know.” 

Cas presses an open-mouthed, deliberate kiss to the skin above Dean’s heart. “I meant it when I said that I love you. You’re kind, and smart, and enjoyable to be around. I want the best for you, I want you to be happy. I enjoy seeing you smile. I care for you.” Cas kisses his tattoo, and Dean can feel his smile against his skin. 

“Am I in love with you? I don’t know. Probably. I could be.” Cas rests his chin on Dean’s chest as he meets his eyes with a small, shy smile. “I want to be.” 

“Fuck.” Dean pulls Cas up to kiss him, slow and sweet and lingering. “And you made fun of me for being sappy.” 

Cas huffs a laugh against Dean’s mouth and they trade kisses between grins. “Rest up, Winchester,” Cas tells him, teasingly, before he slides down to rest his head on Dean’s chest. “You might not have any plans for later, but I certainly do.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're very welcome.


	10. a bracing tonic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A warm flush spreads across Dean’s chest as Gabriel’s surprise fades into smugness. “So. Dean.” The heavy layer of insinuation which Gabriel smothers his name with is almost obscene. “How did you come by Cassie’s phone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All your comments and encouragement and flailing give me the strength I need. Thank you so much. Enjoy domestic bliss.

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


**day twenty-nine**

  
  


Dean is dragged out of an excruciatingly pleasant dream (the details start slipping away as soon as he opens his eyes, but he knows that Cas, a beach, and a coconut featured prominently in the plot) by the jarring ringing of a phone. 

His first reaction, as always when the phone rings late at night, is fear:  _ Is Sam all right, is Jess all right, Ellen, Bobby, Jo--who’s hurt, who’s dead?  _ It takes his sleep muddled brain a moment to connect the separate elements into a cohesive story. It’s not his ringtone shattering the early morning calm of the room. Which means… 

“Cas.” Dean reaches out, his hand slapping at the warm skin of the body encroaching into his space like a particularly hesitant yet still hostile country. A sleepy, disgruntled noise is all he gets from the encounter. “Cas, your phone is ringing.” 

A louder, angrier grunt sounds. Dean pats at Cas’ chest, only for Cas to slap his hand away. Stung, Dean retreats. 

“Ignore it,” Cas orders, only half-awake judging from his sleep-slurred voice. 

The phone sinks into silence. Dean tenses, waiting for it to sound again, but the phone remains silent, if ominously so. Dean relaxes back into the mattress, his body automatically curving towards the warmth housed on the opposite side of the bed. Castiel accepts his invasion with a sleepy hum, infinitely sweeter than he was just a few moments ago. Dean’s just sinking back into sleep when the phone rings again. 

This time, Dean’s dumped so coldly into awareness he knows he’s not going to be able to get back to sleep anytime soon. “Cas, I swear to god, If you don’t answer that fucking phone--” 

“You answer it if it bothers you so much.” Having been dumped back into wakefulness, Cas is snappish. 

(For almost two years, Cas was able to convince Dean that he was just a little surly in the mornings, and that his grumpiness could be cured with a strong cup of coffee. Cas, it turns out, is capable of turning in Oscar-worthy performances, because Cas is an  _ asshole  _ whenever he feels as though he’s been untimely yanked out of slumber. All his sweetness and gentleness disappears, to be replaced with a demon that can only be appeased by caffeine and time. Unfortunately, in this situation, Dean has neither readily available.)

“Fine, dickhead,” Dean murmurs ( _ you love him, you love him, you love him,  _ beating in his chest, not only as placation and reminder, but also as inescapable truth). He fumbles for Cas’ phone. He manages to find it on the disaster of his nightstand and he savagely punches at the screen to answer the call. 

“What?” he snaps, fully ready to unleash hell. 

“Huh,” a semi-familiar voice says on the other end of the line. “You’re not Cassie.” 

Dean blinks, if only to give the volcano of his rage time to build. “Gabriel?” he finally asks. 

Silhouetted against the window, Castiel jerks upright. 

“Dean-o?”

A warm flush spreads across Dean’s chest as Gabriel’s surprise fades into smugness. “So.  _ Dean _ .” The heavy layer of insinuation which Gabriel smothers his name with is almost obscene. “How did you come by Cassie’s phone?” 

Dean looks at Castiel, but there’s no hope of catching a hint from his expression. “Suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I said I picked it up by accident?” 

“Not a chance.” On the other end of the line, Dean can hear the sounds of fabric shifting, along with a contented sigh drawn out to an almost pornographic length. “What other stories you got for me, Deanie-boy?” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean catches Castiel moving. The sheets rustle and Dean tries to see what he’s doing (he thinks, with some small irritation, that some moral support would be nice; it’s not like he’s throwing Cas into a 4 am conversation with Sam with no warning), but Gabriel soon takes all of his attention. 

“You fall asleep on me, Dean?” There’s a vague hint of warning in Gabriel’s voice, one that Dean heeds. It’s a little ridiculous, considering that Gabriel’s most likely on the other side of the world, but he’s always struck Dean as someone on whose bad side he does not want to be. (Also, he’s not entirely sure that Gabriel wouldn’t commandeer a private jet and land it in the local airfield, just to make his life miserable.)

“No, I’m just…” The sheets twist and roll; what the hell is Cas doing? “I’m just trying to…” 

“So I guess now’s the part where I start lecturing you about your intentions towards my brother. Do you have designs on his virtue?” 

(After yesterday, any claims which Cas might make to virtue are debatable. No one who still abides by the outdated notions of  _ virtuous  _ can finger a prostate like Cas did yesterday. Dean hadn’t known he could come that many times outside his teens; his muscles are still pleasantly sore from the workout.)

“I’m not really sure what you mean by-- _ ah--”  _

Dean suddenly discovers where Castiel disappeared to. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, trying to force his voice into calm, even as Cas lays a series of suckling kisses from his knee to his inner thigh. “You know that Cas is one of my best friends; I wouldn’t do anything to fuck that-- _ hah-- _ up.” 

He’s going to kill Cas. As soon as he manages to get Gabriel off the phone, he’s going to murder Cas. In the meantime, he settles for trying to act as normally as possible while Cas licks delicately at the crease between his thigh and groin. Dean winds his free hand down under the sheets and twists his hand in Cas’ hair, yanking ruthlessly in a futile attempt to pull him away. It’s harder than he would normally play, but Cas is relentless as he places whisper-soft kisses up and down the length of his mostly soft, but quickly hardening, dick. 

Bright pain must be spreading across Cas’ scalp, but instead of pulling off, as was Dean’s intent, Cas just moans, loud and exaggerated. The sound echoes around the room and Dean clamps his phone to his chest to keep Gabriel from hearing the noise. 

“Cas, you  _ dick _ , stop it,” he hisses, then brings his phone back up to his ear so he can hear Gabriel’s lecture. 

“Yeah, you’re all undying devotion now, but it’s really easy to be sweet in quarantine. Trust me, I know that Cassie looks hot when there’s not anyone else around, but how’s it going to be when the lockdown lifts and you’re tripping out to the bars?” 

Dean actually huffs out a laugh at the absurdity of the notion. Here he’s been pining after Cas almost since the first time he talked to him, and he’s finally learned the sound of his unfettered laughter and the sweetness of his sighs. Gabriel thinks he could give that up? For what? For a one-night stand that slips out the door the second the condom’s tied off? How could he give up Cas (who at this very moment is laving kitten licks against the head of his dick, in an epic tease which Dean really is going to pay him back for, with interest)? 

“You really,  _ really _ , don’t know me.” Dean’s chuckle turns breathy at the end, mostly because Cas chooses that moment to close his lips over the head of his cock and suck. “If you think I’m going to--” He bites his lower lip as Cas sinks all the way down in a smooth, slow slide. 

Dean glares at the undulating sheets. If he had the sense he was born with, he would hang up, roll over, and go back to bed. Gabriel would be pissed at him, but he could handle that later (maybe he could call Gabriel in the middle of the night to apologize, just he gets an idea of what it’s like). Hanging up certainly makes more sense than trying to hold a conversation about his intentions towards Castiel with Castiel’s brother, while aforementioned Castiel is currently subjecting him to one of the worst teases he’s ever experienced. However, no one ever accused Dean Winchester of being a particularly intelligent man, and he doesn’t hang up the phone. 

Cas scrapes just a hint of teeth over the head of his cock and this time, Dean can’t keep back his low groan. 

“Hold up.” Suspicion finally filters into Gabriel’s voice. “Are you… Is he…” A dreadful, pregnant silence fills the conversation. If Dean weren’t so horrified, then he’d be delighted to imagine Gabriel's expression. “ _ Gross!”  _ Gabriel finally exclaims. There’s only a shred of satisfaction to hear Gabriel so discomposed. 

“That’s my brother! Gross, Winchester! Gross, gross,  _ gross _ !” 

“You were the one telling me how hot he was,” Dean adds, unable to stop himself. Meanwhile, Cas pulls off his cock with a distinctive pop. Dean wars between relief and disappointment. 

“That was an observation! I didn’t ask to hear him deflowering you!”

“Hate to burst your bubble, but I don’t think either one of us were in possession of a single petal before we fell into bed. And if we were, then we’re sure as hell not now.” 

“Shut up! Oh  _ god _ , I thought you were just some nice, repressed, mid-western boy! Now I find out that you’re some weird, kinky sex deviant?” 

It’s at this point that Cas, who is quite possibly the love of his life, chooses to emerge from underneath the sheets. He crawls up the length of Dean’s body, his body lithe and warm as it presses against him. Dean catches the quick flash of Cas’ grin, just before he snatches the phone out of his hands. 

“Gabriel,” Cas says, as composed as if they’d just sat down to dinner. He settles against Dean’s chest, nuzzling idly at his collarbone. “The last time we spoke, I warned you against calling me at this hour.” 

While Dean can’t hear Gabriel’s exact words, he does hear the overall indignation of them. The harsh, artificial light of the phone illuminates Cas’ saint-like expression as he hums understandingly. “Well, honestly, if you call this early, then I think you get what you deserve.” A pause, in which Gabriel’s voice rises. “I suppose you could call it payback for all those times I had to walk in on you.” 

Gabriel’s voice drops, as does Cas’ mocking grin. Instead, he looks startled and thoughtful. The phone catches the flick of his eyes toward Dean as well as the slow spread of his smile. Dean’s heart rises in helpless response. It’s Cas’ soft smile, the slightly crooked one that creeps up on him when he’s unaware. It’s the smile reserved for  _ Dean _ . 

“No. Dean’s not like that. Dean is…” Castiel stops, looking shyly at Dean. “He would never do anything to hurt me.” 

One day, Dean hopes to be worthy of the absolute faith in Cas’ voice. 

“Anyway, since we’re both up, and I really hope you take that in any way you see fit--Yes, I do know  _ exactly  _ the entendre I just made--I’m going to hang up. Word of warning, if you call again without consulting a list of time zones, then you might just hear something you don’t want to hear.” 

Gabriel’s curses and threats are loud enough to echo through the speaker before Cas hangs up. He tosses the phone to the side; Dean hears it clatter to the floor. Neither one of them gives it a moment’s thought. 

Dean’s fingers twist in Cas’ hair, his hand firm on Cas’ hip, as he flips their positions. The sheets tangle around their bodies, and Cas allows himself to be shoved into the mattress. The dim lighting makes it hard to catch individual expressions, but Dean catches the edge of Cas’ lazy grin. A smug laugh rumbles out of Cas’ chest. 

“Yeah, you think you’re funny, don’t you?” Dean tries so hard for anger but his tone falls somewhere in between exasperated and affectionate. “That was fucked up. Don’t ever think about doing something like that with Sam. You’ll put me in therapy for years.” 

“Are you mad?” The mocking tone vanishes from Cas’ voice as he presses his fingers to the corner of Dean’s mouth. “Gabriel was being an ass, a role for which he is uniquely suited, but he was going to keep on tormenting you unless he was given a reason not to.” 

“Oh, so altruism was your great motivator?” 

Cas shrugs, a little unrepentant. “That, and I finally could pay him back for all the times I caught him  _ in flagrante  _ with his girlfriends. Trust me, he deserves  _ much _ worse.” 

“I see.” Dean plays at irritation, but the farce is weak, and they both know it. “I guess the question now is, do you plan on following through with what you started?” A deliberate roll of his hips punctuates his words. 

Cas rolls them over, so quickly that Dean doesn’t have a chance to prepare. He slams into the mattress, already laughing with anticipatory pleasure. “Oh, sweetheart,” Cas croons, and Dean never knew that a simple endearment could make his innards wiggle with pleasure, “did you ever doubt me?” 

-_-_-_-_-_-

**day twenty-nine**

  
  


Castiel is sore in muscle groups he didn’t even know he possessed. He expected the burn in his hips and thighs, not to mention his shoulders and arms, but his calves are sore. His jaw aches. At one point, even his hair felt overused. 

And he wouldn’t change a damn thing. 

The previous day passed in a blur of teeth, tongues, and hands. He and Dean spent almost the whole day in bed, only breaking for food, water, and the bathroom. At one point, both he and Dean wandered out to the living room, with the intent of getting something to eat and watching a movie. 

(It ended, as they might have suspected, with the food forgotten and cooling on the coffee table, as they rutted together on the couch until they came, gasping, against each other. It was a brave attempt, but one ultimately doomed to failure.)

Castiel lies in Dean’s bed, luxuriating in the novelty of a lazy morning with Dean’s body warming the sheets. By now, he knows the taste of Dean, and how his fingers tighten in his hair when he comes, how his muscles tremble. And in turn, Dean knows him, which is less terrifying than Castiel might have originally thought. 

(He’d thought that perhaps it would be awkward between them, after they’d come to know each other as close as two people could be known, but there was no tension between them. Dean had him on his knees and elbows, almost sobbing into his comforter as he worked his fingers in him and Castiel furiously striped his cock, but then ten minutes later, after they were both cleaned up, Dean had brought up the relevancy of Harry Potter in literature, and then they’d been off bickering for the next hour, and it had all been so damned  _ easy  _ that Castiel had been floored by it.)

After Gabriel’s late night call, there had been an exchange of mutually satisfying blowjobs before he and Dean drifted back to sleep. Castiel wakes, examines his sore muscles, and rolls over to examine the broad expanse of Dean’s bare back. He’s finally at his leisure to catalogue each and every freckle and he does so, knowing all the while that he’ll never drink his fill. 

He traces his finger down Dean’s back in whisper soft lines as he tries to create constellations from his freckles. Dean’s resulting shivers are what poets try and fail to capture. Kissing the wing of Dean’s shoulder, Castiel grins at the squirm of delight in the pit of his stomach. Part of him still refuses to believe this is his life, that he’s not only allowed but encouraged in these presumptuous touches. 

A soft noise purrs out of Dean. “What time is it?” 

“No idea,” Castiel murmurs as he brushes his lips over the nape of Dean’s neck. “Late, I guess.” 

Dean hums again, rolling over. Castiel’s heart clenches at the sight of him, sleep-rumpled and soft. Dean’s hair falls over his forehead and his eyes are hazy in the morning. Castiel thinks that his life expectancy might have been cut by half: how could anyone survive waking up to this sight every morning and not expect to perish before their time? 

“Hey.” Dean reaches out to cup Castiel’s cheek in his palm. “You’re looking hot this morning.” 

Castiel hides his grin in Dean’s pillow as fireworks burst in his chest. “Look who’s talking,” he manages to get out. 

This isn’t him. He’s not giddy in the morning; he’s barely coherent. Dean has crept inside him to fill his empty places with stars and sunlight. Far from being alarmed, Castiel welcomes the change. He would dive into Dean’s brightness if he could, use it to scour away all of his dark, unwieldy edges. 

“You want breakfast?” 

In answer, Castiel’s stomach rumbles. Dean laughs and tangles his legs with Castiel’s as he kisses him. Morning breath be damned, Castiel returns the kiss, flicking his tongue teasingly over Dean’s lips before he withdraws. 

“I need to write something today,” he says with a small amount of regret. “I’ve been horrifically unproductive the past few days.” 

Something passes over Dean’s face, the faintest hint of a cloud in the clear summer sky of his expression. “Yeah. How’s that project coming along anyway?” 

Castiel’s heart rate picks up, not so that anyone would notice, but he certainly feels its quick pace. From the tone in Dean’s voice, he’d almost thought… There’s no way. Dean can’t know; he’s just being paranoid. 

“Jess’ article?” He forces his voice to sound nonchalant, but he’s never been a good actor at the best of times. The lack of caffeine in his veins makes itself known as his brain refuses to shake off its sluggishness. “It’s coming along wonderfully. I’ve split it into two parts, and I’m about ready to submit the first part to several magazines.” 

Dean nods as another cloud creeps into his eyes. “What about your other project?” he asks, voice entirely too casual. “How’s Emmanuel doing?” 

Castiel’s world shrinks down to the sardonic twist of Dean’s lips, the fingertips against his hip, the almost painful dig of Dean’s ankle in his calf. The sheets are obscenely soft. The gentle glow of the sun makes a mockery of the sudden frost in his heart. 

Dean knows. 

Dean  _ knows.  _

“I can explain,” he stammers out, recoiling backwards. It hurts to pull away from Dean; his skin yearns for its newest obsession. “I can…” 

He stops, because what is there to say?  _ Sorry I exploited our non-relationship in order to gain millions of viewers and corporate sponsorship? I promise that when I describe our eventual lovemaking, I’ll make it very tasteful.  _

Dean nods, his lips pursed in thought. “I gotta say, it was weird to read about myself from an outsider’s perspective. Of course, it was even weirder when I remembered that Charlie sent me the link in the first place. So I guess she knows about,” Dean waves his hand ineffectually in the thin space between them, “if she’s managed to connect the dots.” 

Castiel winces. If he’s judged Charlie’s quicksilver intellect and intuition correctly, she knew from the moment she first showed Dean the blog. 

“I wasn’t trying to deceive you.” Unable to look at Dean’s face, Castiel directs his apology to the sheets. He notes the small rips and tears and wonders if his fingernails caused them. “I just wanted… It was a way to connect with people, to let off some steam and frustration. Yoga only does so much. It was you who gave me the idea, do you remember? You suggested I keep a record of quarantine.” Castiel forces a laugh which feels like it might crack his chest open. “I just focused on what I thought was the most important part of my quarantine.” 

Dean doesn’t answer, and his expression remains depressingly blank. All of his options are exhausted, and in the face of the sudden rainstorm on a previously clear day, Castiel wants nothing more than to escape. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, sitting up. It feels like he’s moving through tar as he swings his legs over the side of the bed. He searches for his clothes, hoping to escape with a shred of his dignity intact. “I’ll just go. Shit, I’m sorry.” 

He’d known it would be worse, to have and lose, than to never have. He wishes that he wasn’t right. 

“What the… Shit, Cas, no. Don’t you dare.” Castiel throws the sheets away from him, no longer interested in escaping with dignity. Besides, it’s not like Dean hasn’t had the opportunity to catalogue each and every part of his body, numerous times, over the past thirty-six hours. Dean had plenty of time to leave his fingerprints everywhere, to mark Castiel in ways he’ll feel for years to come. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says mindlessly, his brain caught in the need to bolt. “God, I’m sorry.” 

He pushes off of the mattress, only to yelp in surprise as two strong arms wrap around his waist and drag him back down. He and Dean collapse in a pile of flailing limbs, Castiel still making a bid for freedom while Dean seeks to hold him captive. 

Their struggle ends with Castiel in Dean’s lap, his back pressed against Dean’s chest. Dean’s arms wrap around his chest while his legs pin Castiel’s to the mattress (Castiel tries very hard not to take notice of all the advantages of this position). “Will you fucking chill?” Dean growls, all of his early morning laziness vanished. 

Reluctantly, Castiel relaxes. Dean’s hold against him turns from punishing to soothing as Castiel slumps limply against him. His brain and heart are racing at about the same pace as he tries to figure out what Dean’s game is. 

“Cas, I’m sorry. I thought you could tell I was joking.” Dean runs his nose over Cas’ neck, pausing to suck a gentle kiss into the hollow behind his ear. Despite everything, Cas shivers. He trembles harder when Dean runs a soothing hand over his chest. “I’m not mad. I promise you, I’m not angry.” 

Castiel cranes his head over his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of Dean’s expression. He’d been so sure… “I thought you were pissed that I put your private life on the internet for everyone to see.” 

“Not really,” Dean replies. His chin drops to Castiel’s shoulder. “I mean, you never said ‘Here are the chronicles of Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak, two giant idiots’.” Dean’s chuckle releases a puff of warm air against Castiel’s skin. “You did your best to make it anonymous. In fact, you did such a good job that I was reading your blog for a few weeks before I figured out who was writing it.” 

Castiel twists to better face Dean, though he doesn’t dare try to break free of Dean’s embrace. There’s something wondrous in the simple act of being held, and he never wants that feeling to end. “Weeks?”

“Yeah.” Dean ducks his head, covering his shyness by dropping a kiss to Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel could grow to love that look on Dean, the soft pink flush which spreads across his cheeks and turns his freckles vibrant on his skin. “To tell the truth, at first, I was pretty happy to find someone else who was pining after his roommate. I thought Emmanuel and I were kindred spirits.” 

“Well, you are,” Castiel notes. He strokes over the back of Dean’s hand, paying special attention to the strong knuckles and blunt fingertips. It’s his turn to be shy as he asks, “You liked it? The blog?” 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, nipping at the shell of Castiel’s ear. He presses his forehead into the crook of Castiel’s neck, keeping close enough that Castiel can feel the spread of Dean’s smile across his face. “I don’t know if I told you this before, but you’re a damn good writer, Cas.” He drags his hand up Castiel’s chest, to rest over the steady beat of his heart. “Tell you the truth, I don’t think I would have had the balls to make a move if it hadn’t been for that blog.” 

At that, Castiel twists around. He breaks Dean’s hold, but it’s a momentary thing, as he settles back into Dean’s lap. Dean’s arms wrap loosely around his hips. It’s so intimate, so comfortable, that it makes Castiel’s blood sing with delight. 

“You made a move?” he asks, gently mocking. Dean’s flush darkens, but he doesn’t try to correct Castiel. “Sweetheart, I had to burst into your room, sit on top of you, and kiss you into submission before you would admit your feelings.” 

“Hm.” The softness of Dean’s considering hum is lost as he leers up at Castiel. “You want to recreate that scenario?” He shifts underneath Castiel in a reminder that they’re both nude and both becoming rapidly more interested in the situation. The sharpness of Dean’s grin is lost against Castiel’s skin as he nips and sucks his way up to his mouth. “Huh, Cas? You wanna kiss me into submission?” 

It’s a tempting offer, one which Castiel considers taking, until his stomach grumbles unhappily. “Breakfast,” he says, though the word is almost lost in the slick slide of tongues and teeth. In direct contrast to his words, his arms wrap around Dean’s shoulders, holding him closely. 

Dean’s tongue slips against his in a cunning tease, and Castiel gasps into his mouth. “Breakfast,” he reminds Dean, tugging at his hair. “After breakfast… Well, I guess we can do whatever we want after breakfast.” 

Dean chuckles against his mouth. “Thought you had to work?” 

Castiel shrugs. The longer he kisses Dean, the less urgent work becomes. “I’m probably going to meet my deadlines.” His stomach rumbles and this time, a hollow ache accompanies the sound. “But breakfast before anything,” Castiel decides, swinging off of Dean. 

He searches for his boxers while behind him, Dean makes indignant noises. “Breakfast is more important than…” Castiel turns back around to witness Dean gesturing towards the whole of him, including the not unimpressive tent in the sheets. “Than this?” 

“Not always,” Castiel assures him, leaning forward and kissing underneath Dean’s jaw. His stubble scratches at his lips, leaving Castiel with a burn he’ll be able to feel later. “But in this instance, yes. Please get dressed; your breakfasts are much more enjoyable than mine.” When Dean doesn’t move, he nips at the soft skin of his throat. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” 

(Castiel is imagining a long makeout session with Dean on the kitchen counter, legs wrapped around his waist. Some of his messier fantasies include use of whipped cream on various parts of Dean’s anatomy.)

“Fine, fine,” Dean groans, though he gets out of bed a little too quickly for someone who’s uninterested in breakfast. “You’re a monster.” 

Castiel makes a small noise of agreement as he sifts through Dean’s shirts. He finds one that he likes, though that’s not compared to the heat in Dean’s eyes as he looks appreciatively at Castiel dressed in his clothes. “You love it though.” 

The playful response slips out as a reflex before Castiel has a chance to edit his thoughts. For a second, the old fear takes hold of him (he can’t risk pissing Dean off or chasing him away, what the hell was he thinking), but it vanishes at the goofy grin Dean tries, and fails, to hide. 

“Yeah,” Dean finally says, tugging out a pair of boxers and his robe. “Yeah, I really do.” 

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


**day thirty**

  
  


Dean keeps having to pinch himself to make sure he’s not dreaming. 

Last night, Cas actually caught him in the act. He said nothing, just raised a slow, thoughtful eyebrow as he took in the fading white spot on Dean’s arm and the rapidly spreading blush on Dean’s cheeks. “You know,” he said, as he turned another page of his book, “if you’re interested, I can help you with that.” He reached over, and before Dean could stop him, pinched his ass, right at the meatiest part. Dean yelped and swatted at Cas’ hand, choking on his laughter as he tried to pinch Cas back. 

He laughs more than he used to, the sound rising unbidden to his lips. Even with the pressures of work (after he spends two days learning Cas’ body, he receives a terse email from his boss asking about projections and sketches, forcing him to fire off an apologetic reply about stress and inspiration, and a bunch of other self-serving bullshit that he’ll feel guilty about later. His boss seems to accept it, which is nice, and then, after he submits a placating set of numbers, Cas sinks to his knees under the table and sucks him to a slow, excruciating finish, which is extra nice) don’t really bother him. 

They finally manage to pull out of each other’s orbits for a little while, cognizant of the threat of looming deadlines and irate coworkers. Dean sits down at the table, wincing as he settles into his chair. It hasn’t gotten any more comfortable with the passing of time. He glances at the spreadsheets before him and winces. He still can’t wrap his head around the complexities of design, not when he’s busy contemplating Cas’ low growl as he kisses his way down Dean’s stomach. Out of habit, and a little bit of curiosity, Dean checks Emmanuel’s blog. At the top of the page, the icon signaling a new post shakes with some urgency. Dean’s heart skips a little in response. Spurred by a little voyeuristic wondering, Dean clicks the post. 

(“You really don’t mind?” They were entwined on the couch, Dean’s head pillowed on Cas’ chest. With his ear pressed this closely, Cas’ voice became a tactile presence as well, surrounding him with sensation. His brain, lazy and content, couldn’t quite interpret Cas’ question, so he hummed curiously and flicked his eyes up to Cas’ face. Cas looked back down at him, worry and affection blending on his face. “The blog,” Castiel clarified. He idly carded his fingers through Dean’s hair. The gesture was presumptuous and casual, and Dean wanted at least twenty thousand more. “You’re really not mad I wrote it?” 

If this were a few years ago, then yeah, Dean would have minded a whole hell of a lot, but his older, more enlightened self has better things to care about. As far as the blog was concerned, it’s not like Cas had put in anything overtly embarrassing (other than the fact that Dean’s an idiot, but to be fair, Cas implicated himself pretty firmly in the idiot category right alongside Dean). Matter of fact, once the relationship was a bit more settled, he thought he might forward the link to Jess and Jo. He didn’t doubt that both women would be inordinately pleased by reading the blog, even if it does give them countless opportunities to blackmail him. 

Dean shrugged, his fingers tapping against Cas’ chest. “Not really. It’s not hurting me, plus it’s good for you.” He pinched at Cas’ nipple and grinned at the catch in Cas’ breathing. “Don’t think that I didn’t see all those sponsorships, Mr. Moneybags. You can use your ill-gotten wealth to GrubHub us something really good one of these nights. I’ll be your kept boy and you can keep me in the luxury which I’ve become accustomed to by writing odes to my dick.” Dean paused. “Don’t, you know, actually write about my dick. Or if you do, make it good. Tactful, I guess? Sexy yet charming?” 

Cas laughed into the top of Dean’s head before he placed several audible kisses there. “I hadn’t planned to write about anyone’s dicks. I think my readers signed on more for fluff than softcore homosexual erotica. But rest assured, if I were to write about your genitals, it would be with the utmost respect for the skill with which you use them.” 

Dean buried his smile in the warmth of Cas’ chest. “Oh baby, I love it when you talk dirty.”)

The page loads and Dean reads. 

_ I know that some of you have noticed that I’ve been absent from this blog for a few days. (Some of you were kinder about it than others.) Some of you even guessed the reason for it.  _

_ After two years, Roommate and I are finally on the same page. We sat down and talked. And then we did more than talk.  _

_ I know that you’re all eager to hear the story, and I’ll probably tell it one day, if any of you are still reading this (I can tell you that it involves a large amount of alcohol and slow dancing). But I’ve spent so much time talking about the journey here. For once, I want to talk about the destination.  _

_ Whenever people talk about relationships, they usually talk about something called the ‘honeymoon period’. I’m not sure if that’s where Roommate and I are currently, but I hope not. Mostly because the honeymoon period is synonymous with endings, and I don’t want this feeling to end. I’m not soppy in love, stars in my eyes, the hills are alive, but I am...full (and not in a weird way, you perverts). The best I can do to describe it is to say that there were dozens of empty rooms in me and I never knew they existed until Roommate opened their doors. Even better, by the time I knew they existed, he’d already done the work of furnishing them. All I had to do was walk inside. It’s a bad analogy, but it’s all I’ve got. If you’ve ever felt the same, then you’ll understand, and if you haven’t, then I hope you get to feel it one day. It’s like nothing else in this world.  _

_ Now that the hard part (admitting that we’re both idiots) is over with, Roommate and I are drinking deep from the well of honesty. It’s a bracing tonic. Once we both embraced its power, new facts came to light (namely that sometimes I’m an asshole and Roommate is a dick), which previously slipped under the rug. All of our little foibles and flaws are bared and it’s fine. It’s more than fine. It’s relaxing. There’s freedom when you can be completely yourself with another person. I never knew that before. I never found anyone that I wanted to show my whole self, or that I felt comfortable showing my whole self to.  _

_ Honeymoon period? It’s only been two days and I want this feeling to stretch out into years. Every day is a revelation, and every night… Well, I promised Roommate I wouldn’t talk about his genitals (I also promised I wouldn’t call them that, but oh well, I’m not an angel).  _

_ Anyway, if you’re worried about me, then rest assured, there’s no need. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been. The only cloud on my horizon is the fear that one day, I’m going to wake up from this dream and emerge back into real life. How are you supposed to work with something like this sitting in your chest all the time? How am I supposed to concentrate on editing when he’s sitting just twenty feet away from me, looking like that?  _

_ These are the true mysteries of the universe.  _

There are a few other lines, but Dean doesn’t read them. He’s seized by a frantic urgency, one that has him pushing away from the table and hurrying to Cas’ office. He opens the door without knocking. 

Were it not for his shrill yelp, the sound of surprise that Cas makes could almost be described as manly. “Dean?” he asks, glaring at him underneath the fringe of his hair (obviously, Dean didn’t do a good job cutting it; he’s obviously going to have to do Haircut Round 2 here before too long). “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing.” Dean crosses the room in two long strides before he drops to his knees in front of Cas’ chair. He bumps Cas’ legs wider, leaving enough room for Dean to slot himself between the V of his legs. “I just…” He pushes his face into Cas’ belly and breathes in the clean scent of him. A hesitant hand rests on the back of his head, before Cas strokes over his hair. 

“I’m really glad that I found you,” Dean whispers. “I’m just really, really fucking happy that I get to do this.” 

Cas’ touch gains surety and Dean slumps into him. “You must know that I feel the same,” Cas tells him. “You must know that you’re the best thing to happen to me ever since...ever.” 

Dean hides the shakiness of his inhalations in Cas’ stomach. Honesty. It’s addictive and terrifying. He’s never felt as  _ seen  _ as he does with Cas, like Cas can parse him apart with a single look. He feels seen, he feels  _ known _ , but more importantly, he  _ wants  _ to feel those things whenever he’s around Cas. 

Logically, he knows it’s too soon to feel the words; certainly it’s too soon to say them. But it doesn’t erase what’s emblazoned on his heart, or the joy that flares in him every time Cas’ fingers brush against his skin. He relaxes into Cas, ignoring the complaining twinge in his knee. He can stay here for a little longer. 

“I can’t believe you thought I was straight,” he finally murmurs. 

Cas’ fingers sneak under the collar of his shirt. Dean moans softly as those clever fingers start to work at the muscles of his shoulders. Cas echoes the sound with a hum of complacent agreement. “I can’t believe you thought I was uninterested.” 

Dean’s heats, turning from languid to yearning. “Think I could make you interested right now?” He mouths hotly at Cas’ groin, only halfway expecting a reaction.

“I’m not twenty anymore,” Cas tells him, which isn’t a no. Neither is the spread of his legs or the clench of his fingers in Dean’s hair. “At some point, we’re going to have to slow down or else my dick is going to fall off.” 

Despite his protests, which admittedly are half-hearted at best, Dean can feel Castiel stirring underneath his lips. “That would be a tragedy, especially considering that I’ve got a lot of plans for this dick.” He grins as he slides his hands up Castiel’s thighs to rub teasingly at the seam of his pants. “You gonna meet your deadlines?” 

Cas smiles at him, one of his wide, gummy smiles that always makes Dean’s heart feel as though it’s gone sky jumping without a parachute. 

“They’ll wait.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*


	11. revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel hates everything about mornings. He hates the inevitability which clings to them. He loathes the slow creep away from bed into the cold embrace of the waking world. Mornings are too bright and too harsh to ever be considered remotely enjoyable. At least, that’s what he thought before he experienced the joy of mornings with Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end folks! It's been a wonderful ride. <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


**day thirty-one**

  
  


The brush of Dean’s hair against his nose wakes Castiel. It tickles enough to shake him out of a solid sleep, which should be infuriating, but all Castiel feels is an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. 

Castiel hates everything about mornings. He hates the inevitability which clings to them. He loathes the slow creep away from bed into the cold embrace of the waking world. Mornings are too bright and too harsh to ever be considered remotely enjoyable. At least, that’s what he thought before he experienced the joy of mornings with Dean. 

Now, Castiel finds beauty in the soft glow of the morning sun as it creeps over the skyline and kisses at Dean’s skin. The gentle glow illuminates the plains and valleys of Dean’s body, casting shadows in the hollow of his hips and collarbones. Castiel allows his eyes to feast on the sight, even as he acknowledges he’ll never have enough of this, that he’s a junkie who will always crave more and always be left wanting. He needs to be able to recreate the soft fall of Dean’s eyelashes on his cheek from memory alone. He wants to diagram the exact angle of Dean’s mouth as it falls open in a sound that Castiel doesn’t want to call a snore, but can’t be termed anything else. 

“You know, if you take a picture, it’ll last longer.” 

Castiel traces a finger over Dean’s forehead, pushing at the barely discernible wrinkles until he can smooth them out. “You don’t have to resort to cliche. I just enjoy watching you.” 

“God, you’re weird.” The last word ends on a yawn as Dean snuggles closer. His fingers curl around Castiel’s hip, possessive and tender in turns. One bleary green eye cracks open. “Do I look funky?”

“Usually.” Castiel manages to hold a straight face for as long as he can (about five seconds) before he cracks and an almost unbearably lovesick smile spreads over his features. “Sleeping or awake, you’re the loveliest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

Dean’s morning blush is like dew evaporating on the grass. It spreads across his cheeks, sweet and warm. “You can’t say that shit this early in the morning.” 

Castiel tangles his ankle with Dean’s. “I will say it in the morning, in the afternoon, and in the evening, and as many times as you need to hear it.” The kiss he drops on Dean’s forehead is borderline aggressive. “I’ll say it as many times as I need for you to start believing it.” 

Castiel doesn’t think Dean realizes how much it hurts to hear him disparage himself. The first time he heard Dean minimize his own accomplishments, he thought Dean was (fairly obviously) fishing for compliments. Then he realized that was just how Dean thought about himself. Worse yet, someone made Dean believe that’s how he should think about himself. Castiel had made a decision then to make Dean aware of his own worth. It’s just his good luck that he can now be much more overt in his mission statement. 

Dean’s flush deepens as he ducks his head. “Yeah, all right,” he mumbles. It’s not quite a win, but it’s close enough for Castiel to declare victory anyway. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Castiel shrugs and kisses a line from Dean’s temple down to his jaw. “Whatever you feel like making. Surprise me.” 

Dean sits up and scratches at his chest while Castiel, indolent and lazy, lounges on the bed and watches him. Dean’s fingernails scratch through the sparse hairs on his belly and he shoots a vaguely exasperated look at Castiel. “You did a shit job of cleaning up last night. I’m still gross.” 

Castiel yawns, unfazed by Dean’s complaints. “Maybe next time I’ll just lick you clean,” he suggests, then politely pretends like he doesn’t see the sudden flare of hunger in Dean’s eyes. 

“All right asshole.” Though the word is harsh, it’s so tinged with fondness that it loses all hint of rebuke. “I’m going to get a shower. Then I’ll make breakfast and maybe, just for the hell of it, I won’t give you any.” 

“Oh, you wouldn’t dare.” Castiel stretches, careful to make sure that the sheet slides off his chest to reveal his bare torso and hipbones. 

Castiel knows that he’s not horrific to look at, but having a creature as beautiful as Dean openly appreciate him is a pleasure which he’s never known. He basks in the feeling, even going so far as to arch his back in a coy tease. The heat in Dean’s eyes is his reward. Castiel can feel the heat of them as Dean rakes them over his body. Unlike before, Dean doesn’t dart his glance away after a quick second, guilt dogging his every step. Now, Dean feasts his eyes, and even goes so far as to lick his lips. His tongue taps at the plump flesh of his lower lip. 

Castiel’s resolve starts to crumble.

“Shower, then breakfast,” he reminds Dean, though he does taunt him by dipping his hand under the sheet to scratch at the wiry hairs at his groin. Dean watches the progress of his hand with heated interest. 

“You’re an asshole,” Dean repeats ( _ asshole  _ has become his favorite name for Castiel. In Dean’s mouth the curse sounds more affectionate than any endearment). “And later tonight, you’ll get what’s coming to you.” 

“Oh sweetheart,” Castiel croons, smiling wickedly, “I think you and I both know that’s not going to happen.” 

(“I want you inside,” Dean gasped last night as he sat on Castiel’s lap and rutted against his stomach. Castiel gasped, his teeth biting at Dean’s chest as his cock nestled into the crease of Dean’s ass. “I want you to fuck me for hours until I can’t stand, I want to flip you over and finger you open until you’re begging for me, I want you to fuck me into the mattress, I want--oh  _ god-- _ ” 

Dean came with a gasp and Castiel followed a moment later, sinking his teeth into the muscle of Dean’s shoulder as pleasure coursed through his body. He’d ached afterward, his body caught in the cruel reality of his impending age. He’d wanted nothing more than to press Dean into the mattress until he could fulfill every one of his gasped desires. Instead, he’d settled for pulling Dean against him, so close that he could feel the rise and fall of Dean’s chest as his breathing returned to normal. He hadn’t been able to let go, not until Dean dropped off into a doze and Castiel was left to splendor in his presence.)

“Dick,” Dean mutters, before he disappears into the shower. Castiel watches the flex of his ass as he walks away and barely refrains from whistling after him. Steam billows from the bathroom as the shower kicks on, and Castiel rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling. 

He still has deadlines to fulfill, and at some point he’s going to have to come to terms with losing the cash cow of Emmanuel’s blog, but for now, all he can feel is  _ luck luck luck  _ coursing through his veins like liquid gold.

\---

It strikes Castiel later, when he and Dean are making a grocery list, how easily they’ve slid into domestic bliss. 

(Once the adrenaline and endorphins had faded on that first night, Castiel dared to broach the topic with a valiant, “So.” 

“Yeah?” Dean asked. They lay on their backs, limbs askew, as they stared at the ceiling. It was somehow easier to address their concerns to that unfeeling expanse of white than to each other. 

“Are we…” Castiel bit his lip. It was like he regressed into his sixteen year old self, gangly and awkward, with no clue of how to relate to another human being. “I mean, do you want this to be a  _ thing _ , or?”

“Aw, Cas.” Dean’s hand groped around on the mattress before it found Castiel’s. Their fingers laced together so perfectly, that Castiel wondered if they had been created for each other. “Are you asking me if I want to go steady?”

“In a nutshell.” 

“Well, I do have one hell of a crush on you. It would be nice if I could take you out and show you off. You know, once the world opens back up.” 

Castiel’s heart thumped happily in his chest, so insistently that he thought he would pass out from the glee of it. He settled for squeezing Dean’s hand and turning his head to better look at him. “You have a crush on me? That must be so embarrassing for you.” 

Dean squeezed back. His smile was enough to light up the room. “Yeah, well, I have it on pretty good authority that you have a crush on me too.”

“Yeah,” Castiel whispered. He rolled onto his side. “It’s a pretty big crush. Kinda embarrassing for me.” 

“Well good.” Dean matched Castiel’s soft tone. It felt reverent somehow, like the two of them were tiptoeing into something larger that they could never begin to understand. “I’d hate to be alone.”)

Castiel always assumed he’d be a crappy boyfriend, but everything comes so easily with Dean. He doesn’t know how long he can ride this wave of goodwill; for now, he and Dean exist in an idyllic bubble, safe from the horrors and trials of the world. Castiel knows that eventually the real world will intrude upon them. He feels oddly selfish for wishing that day far away. 

“We’re out of that creamer that you like,” Dean says, leaning over Castiel’s shoulder. He rests his chin on top of Castiel’s head so that his voice vibrates through Castiel when he speaks. “And make sure that you put some red wine vinegar on the list, I want to try and make a dressing later this week.” 

Castiel goes so far as to lay down his pen, glancing over his shoulder at Dean. “You. You’re going to willingly make a dressing. Is this going along with vegetables?”

“Well yeah, I found a recipe for a salad that looked fun the other day, I thought…” Dean’s voice trails off as Castiel starts to laugh. “What’s so funny?” 

“Not to be cliche, but who are you and what have you done with Dean Winchester?” Silence greets his admittedly unfunny joke. “You looked up a salad recipe? You’re looking forward to making it?”

Dean ducks his head. “I just thought… It looked like something that you would enjoy.”

Castiel twists around to face Dean and tilts his head in a silent request for a kiss. After a moment, Dean obliges him. 

The kiss is sweet and chaste, yet packs enough of a punch to spark a low flame in Castiel’s stomach. He hums into Dean’s lips, practically preening as Dean’s hands sweep over his cheeks and down his throat. When they finally separate, Castiel’s happy to see that Dean’s expression is as dazed as his. 

“Sweet, wonderful man,” Castiel murmurs. “What did I ever do to deserve someone like you?” 

Dean’s blush returns in full force, sweeping over his cheeks and down the back of his neck. His eyes dart until they settle at a place just over Castiel’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” he mumbles, obviously uncomfortable, “lose a bet?” 

Castiel frowns and pinches at the vulnerable flesh of Dean’s upper arm. “Stop that.” Dean squirms, but Castiel just pinches harder. “Not until you stop,” he warns. 

“All right, fine,” Dean growls. He finally manages to twist away and spends several moments rubbing his upper arm. “Dick,” he finally accuses. 

“You’re probably right,” Castiel agrees. He opens his arms. Without a moment’s hesitation, Dean steps into them and allows Castiel to enfold him in a tight embrace. “I feel like we’re missing something,” he says, once Dean’s arms wrap around his shoulders. “Look over the list again?” 

Dean shuffles them over to the counter and cranes his head to read over the list. As he does, he adds, almost like an afterthought, “Oh, by the way, Charlie and Sam want to have a Zoom party later tonight. I think they were going to invite Jo and Benny.” 

“Oh. Ok.” Disquiet settles in Castiel’s stomach. “Should be fun, I suppose. Will you, uh, will you come to my room when it’s over?” 

Dean pulls away, just far enough to look down at him. His forehead wrinkles in confusion. “The hell are you talking about?” His expression falters. “Do you not want to?” 

“No, you should see your friends. I know you’ve missed them. I just don’t want to crash anything.” 

Dean’s chuckle rolls through him. Castiel would bottle that sound if he could and play it every night like a lullaby. “Baby, you’re not crashing anything. Charlie and Sam both want you there, and even if they didn’t, I want you there. Come on, we’ll play really awful online games and Charlie will kick everyone’s ass. Benny will be an awful, grumpy old man, and Jo will be a brat, and Sam and Jess will be gross. It’ll be the most fun ever!” 

“And you and I?” Castiel can’t help but ask. “What will you and I be?” 

The moment the question tumbles from Castiel’s lips, he feels horribly needy. Dean doesn’t judge him though, doesn’t even blink. “What do you want to be?” 

“Yours,” tumbles from Castiel’s mouth before he can stop himself. Then it’s his turn to feel heat spreading across his cheeks as Dean’s mouth splits in a delighted grin. 

“And you make fun of me for being sentimental,” he crows. 

“Shut up,” is all Castiel can get out before Dean interrupts him with a series of short, smacking kisses. Each kiss is a promise. 

“Whatever you want to do is what we’ll do,” Dean says, once they separate from each other. “If you want to get on the zoom party and make out for two hours, then we’ll do that. If you want to get drunk while we play cheesy games, we’ll do that. If you want to say screw it, and go fuck like bunnies, then we’ll do that.” 

“Well, the prospect of making out in front of your nearest and dearest doesn’t really appeal to me, and while your last offer is tempting, I have to confess that I’m dying for human interaction that isn’t the sight of a delivery boy hustling away from the door.” 

Dean draws back in mock affront. “Are you saying that you’re getting tired of me?” 

Castiel flicks his fingers at the bolt of Dean’s jaw, almost offended at the ludicrous idea. “Don’t be ridiculous. But as engaging as you are, I would dearly love to talk to Sam and Jess, as well as everyone else. Plus, if we play any games, I’m fairly certain that I could get you to agree to several embarrassing activities.” 

“Like hell,” Dean scoffs. “I bet you can’t get me to do a single--” He stops once he sees Castiel’s wide grin and realizes what he walked himself into. “You know, you’re not nearly as cute as you think you are,” he blusters, even as he leans into Castiel. 

“Oh, I think I’m exactly as cute as I think I am.” 

“Your powers of logic and reasoning are unparalleled,” Dean mocks. He’s happy though, and loose with it, as he allows Castiel to back him towards the kitchen counter. With a single hop, he’s happily seated on the countertop, his legs bowing even wider to allow Castiel to slot himself neatly against them. 

Making out with Dean on the countertop is exactly as wonderful as it was in Castiel’s fantasies, except more so, since he gets to hear the sounds Dean makes as Castiel nips down his neck to nudge the collar of his shirt aside. 

“What is that you always say?” Castiel murmurs as he contemplates sucking a dark mark just underneath where Dean’s shirt normally lays. He flicks his eyes up at Dean. An almost vicious surge of  _ wanting  _ hits him at the lust at the edge of Dean’s smile and in his eyes. 

“I think I’m adorable.”

  
  


-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


**day thirty-one**

  
  


It’s ridiculous for Dean to be this anxious for a damn Zoom call, but here he is, pacing around the room as he waits for the clock to tick over to six. 

This is what he hates about quarantine. Every aspect of life becomes a giant production. Where before he would have just walked down the hall to ask his boss a question now becomes a lengthy series of emails, sometimes with a video conference thrown in, just to add some unnecessary spice to his days. Where before he would have walked into the bar with his arm thrown over Castiel’s shoulders and probably kissed him just to stake his territory and let his friends know what happened, now becomes a labyrinth of disastrous decisions. 

How does he tell his friends? Does he announce it formally at the beginning of the call, like he’s reading out the minutes on a conference call? Does he hope that the information just comes out organically sometime throughout the night? Does he just grope Cas halfway through and hope someone notices? No matter which scenario he plays out, they all feel fake. 

He’s wound so tightly that eventually Cas notices. One firm hand guides him to sit on the couch, while the other presses a beer into his hand. Dean takes a mindless sip, appreciating the ritual more than the almost negligible buzz. After Cas cleans up a few dishes in the kitchen, he plops next to Dean on the couch. One hand wraps around his knee in a thoughtless comfort. While Dean appreciates the warmth and weight of the gesture, not even Cas’ casual touch can fully relax him. 

When he sees that his small gestures aren’t helping, Castiel resorts to more overt measures. He wraps his free arm around Dean’s shoulders and drags him closer. Grateful for the excuse, Dean tucks his face into the crook of Cas’ shoulder. “If you’re this upset, then it doesn’t matter. Put off telling your friends. You can text them later, send them all cards, or paint a building with the news. It matters more to me that you’re happy.” 

Cas’ words are sincere, and Dean doesn’t doubt that Cas would never express a single complaint if he decided to wait. But the problem doesn’t come from a need for secrecy. Dean sneaks his hand underneath the hem of Cas’ shirt. Cas murmurs happily as Dean rubs at the broad expanse of his back. 

“It’s not that. I don’t want to keep this a secret.” Dean kisses at the curve of Cas’ neck, laughing ruefully. “I feel like I worked pretty damn hard for this; I want to show you off to everyone. The problem is, I can’t figure out a way to tell my friends that doesn’t feel fake. What you and I have… It’s real. And I want to make sure that everyone knows that.” 

He wants to sink into the warmth of Cas’ laughter and use it like a blanket. As it is, he gladly slumps until Cas takes the majority of his weight. One hand sweeps through his hair as Cas kisses his forehead. 

“Sweetheart, of course it’s real. Anyone who knows us knows that it’s real. Besides, unless I’m very greatly mistaken, your friends will probably figure it out before you tell them.” 

“Yeah? You think?” 

Cas hums in agreement. “I hate to tell you this babe, but you’ve got a pretty shitty poker face.” 

“Yeah? Well, you’ve got a shitty...face.” 

“Now I know you’re lying.” 

Dean would counter with some more witty banter, but Cas’ lips are too tempting. Maybe one day the fire will ebb. Maybe one day he’ll be able to look at Cas without feeling the curl of  _ need  _ in his gut. But Dean hopes that day’s not imminent. He wants to fall into Cas, for a thousand days and in a thousand different ways. 

The kiss was supposed to be a quick check-in, for comfort instead of titillation, but, unsurprisingly, Dean loses himself. At the first touch of Cas’ tongue against the seam of his lips, Dean opens his mouth. Cas’ tongue slides against his and Dean melts further into him. Heat flares in the pit of his belly and he slides his fingers into Cas’ thick hair. He grabs at Cas’ knee for stability even as Cas slides his hand under Dean’s shirt. 

They could work in a quickie before the call. They could forget about the call altogether and retreat to the bedroom. They could… Freeze in terror as the sound of all of Dean’s close friends, including his brother and his future sister-in-law catcalling and whistling finally grabs their attention. 

Charlie must have started the call while he wasn’t paying attention, giving everyone a front row view of his newly changed relationship. Well, at least telling his friends won’t be an issue.

“Yes! I knew it! Yes!” A surprisingly guttural yell of victory erupts from Jess. Dean rips away from Cas’ lips just in time to see her dancing in awkward circles around the laptop. 

Dean’s hand makes a swift retreat from underneath Cas’ shirt, but he doesn’t bother putting any real distance between them. His friends already saw him rounding second, no point in pretending modesty. “Well, I suppose this takes care of letting your friends know,” Cas murmurs into his ear. He can play at being unaffected all he wants, but Dean catches the deep flare of red chasing across the back of his neck. He kisses at it, just to hear Sam’s wail in the background. 

“ _ Gross, _ Dean! Cas, I’m ashamed of you!” 

“Apologies. I seem to have, ah, lost control for a brief moment.” 

“More than a brief moment,” Jo leers. She’s perched at a rather unattractive angle, giving everyone an uncomfortable view of her nostrils. “Shame they stopped you. We could have made some extra money if we’d let you two keep on going and then sold the recording.” 

Dean makes a mental note to murder Jo as soon as quarantine ends. 

“Congratulations, cher,” is all Benny says, lifting his beer in a toast. 

Sam gags and Jess continues dancing in the background, in some strange combination of a chicken dance and twerking. (How does Sam manage to take this woman out in public?) Meanwhile, Charlie is bent over a piece of paper, writing furiously at a scrap of paper. 

“Tallies are in! Jo, you owe $10 to Sam, $15 to Benny, and a whopping $20 to me, so pay up! I accept PayPal and Venmo. Gilda babe, I love you, but you owe me too. I’ll take my winnings in something other than cash.” She pauses to nuzzle against Gilda’s nose (and they call him gross). 

As Charlie gets ready to launch into another series of tallies, Dean interrupts. “Hold on. Did you take  _ bets _ on us?” 

He wishes he could be surprised, but he knows his friends too well. They’re lovely, selfless people, but they’re ruthlessly mercenary when it comes to humiliating him. 

Charlie shrugs, unabashed. “How else are we supposed to entertain ourselves? You should be proud of Jo. Maybe offended. She thought it would take you sixty days before you broke1.” 

“So I overestimated their idiocy or underestimated their horniness. Sue me,” Jo shrugs. 

“Jess was a little too optimistic; she predicted fourteen days. Benny was closer with twenty-one, but it’s Baby Winchester and yours truly who come closest with a guesstimate of twenty-eight and thirty-three days respectively.” 

“I’m still not sure that you weren’t trading on insider information,” Benny complains, one eyebrow arching upward. “Who’s to say that you didn’t hack their phones?” 

Charlie puts a single hand to her chest. “Me? Cheat? Never.” Maybe everyone else misses it, but Dean sincerely mistrusts the smirk trying to wrestle its way onto her face. 

Normally, Dean would be pissed to hear that his nearest and dearest were taking bets on his love life, but mustering up any sort of anger is difficult when he has Cas’ arm around his waist. Still, he has a reputation to maintain, so he cuts short the bickering with a gruff, “Look, one day one of you is going to do something embarrassing, and when that happens, you bet your asses I’m going to remember that.” 

“Impossible,” Sam says, like his girlfriend isn’t breathless from dancing like a maniac. “I have never once done anything embarrassing ever.” 

“Right.” Dean drags the word out until it’s at least eight syllables long. “Can I just bring to your attention the time when you were eight and really needed a bathroom--”

“And that’s enough of that! Charlie, what are we playing?” Sam’s grin has a hint of mania to it, but they’re all kind enough not to mention it. 

Charlie managed to find an online version of Cards Against Humanity, and everyone settles down to play. Charlie details her complicated rules for when someone needs to take a drink or not (Dean resolves to just drink whenever he damn well pleases). He’s played the game before with everyone but Cas, and Cas adds a fascinating spice to the game. 

“Castiel Novak!” Jo gasps, once Cas’ card is picked yet again as the winning card. “Where have you been hiding this side of yourself, you little pervert?” 

“Oh, you have no idea,” Dean murmurs, only to be greeted by silence in the rest of the call. Turns out the microphone on his laptop is a little more sensitive than he originally thought. 

Sam raises his hand. “All in favor of erasing the last thirty seconds from our collective memory?” 

And Sam goes on the list of people who Dean needs to murder once quarantine ends. 

As one game stretches into two, Cas leans further into Dean’s space. His normal reserve slips into a loose sort of goofiness as he hides his face in Dean’s shoulder, caught in helpless laughter. Dean reaches out and tangles his fingers with Cas’ (he politely ignores the chorus of  _ awww’s  _ which erupt from Jess, Gilda, and Charlie, and, horrifically enough, Benny. Fuck ‘em all anyway, Cas is cute, and hot, and  _ his,  _ by some logic which surpasses his understanding). Cas’ hand is large and warm in his; Cas’ chuckle rolls through him like thirty year old whiskey, lighting up his blood. 

The second game winds to a close. As Charlie counts the points, Cas leans close to Dean. “Not that I’m not having a good time, but are you feeling like getting out of here?” 

“Why? Are you tired? Not feeling good?” 

“No, I feel fine.” Cas’ lips brush against his ear, sending tiny shivers racing down Dean’s spine. If he thought that tease was bad, what comes out of Cas’ mouth a second later is even worse. “I just thought that if you were amenable, we could excuse ourselves so I could fuck you senseless.”

Well  _ hell.  _ How is he supposed to say no to an offer like  _ that?  _

“Much fun as this has been, I think we’re going to get out of here.” Dean tries to make the excuse as casual as possible; too bad his friends know him all too well. 

“Oh gross, they’re gonna go, you know!” Jo tries to make an obscene gesture, but she’s a little tipsy and her fingers miss each other by miles. Jess helps her out by shoving her two pointer fingers together. She twists and links them for extra emphasis. 

“I thought you were on our side!” Dean protests. 

“I’m totally on your side,” Jess assures him. “It just bothers Sam so much to talk about.” She giggles as she shoves her fingers in Sam’s face. Truthfully, Sam does look a little green around the gills. There’s no mercy in Dean’s heart for his brother; serves him right for being a dick earlier.

“Go enjoy your den of sin,” Charlie says, as imperiously as her alter-ego. “But you’re doing this again next week, without dipping out early for a booty-call.” 

“Is it a booty call when he lives with me?” 

_ “Dean,”  _ Castiel says, his low voice a promise and warning all at the same time. 

“Yeah, we’ve got to go,” Dean decides, and quickly exits from the call, cutting off the protests of  _ Gross  _ and  _ I expected so much more from you, Cas!  _

Dean shuts his laptop. He frowns at the closed lid. “All of my friends know we’re about to go have sex. That’s kind of weird.” He stands up and makes his way towards the bedroom, only to be accosted on his way by Castiel.

Cas’ arms snake around his waist. His mouth is hot against the back of Dean’s neck. “Is that going to stop you?” 

His hands trace down Dean’s stomach as he nimbly unbuckles his belt. “Hell no,” Dean says. He pulls out of Cas’ arms and darts towards his bedroom. 

Cas catches up to him within a few seconds. He stops short of a full body tackle, but he does tumble them down to the mattress. They both shake with breathless laughter as they roll onto the mattress. Their merriment continues even through their bumbling efforts to undress each other. Mostly, they get in each other’s way, hands tangling with hands as they both try to pull off the others shirt, but eventually Dean rolls over and feels the intoxicating slide of Cas’s skin against his. 

Cas’ mouth finds his and Dean moans into the kiss. He can feel Cas hardening against his hip, and knows that Cas feels the same from him, but he doesn’t want to give up this easy closeness. He’s never had this kind of intimacy before, where he could mindlessly kiss and bask in the pleasure of lips against skin, fingers brushing over his back, hair sliding through his hands, without racing for the need for more. 

Cas changes that, however, when he shifts underneath Dean. The new angle has Dean’s cock rutting into the crease of his hip, leaving a damp smear behind. The combined sounds of their moans echo up towards the ceiling. Dean kisses Cas, chasing that same noise. 

When they part, Cas curls his palm around the side of Dean’s face. His pupils are blown huge, with only a thin ring of blue surrounding them. Dean can feel the insistent press of Cas’ cock against his thigh, but his voice is calm and his hands are steady. “What do you want to do?” 

By mutual unspoken agreement, they’ve been taking it slow. Well, in a sense. Dean knows the sounds Cas makes when he gets his dick sucked, just like he knows the hot, wet pleasure of his mouth. He knows how Cas trembles when he flicks his wrist just so over the head of his cock and he knows the flex of Cas’ hips as they rut together. He’s seen Cas fist the sheets as Dean worked his fingers inside him, and he’s experienced Cas’ merciless teasing as he presses on Dean’s prostate and holds orgasm just out of reach. 

But he’s never felt the warm clutch of Cas’ body gripping him as he moves against him, and he’s never felt the hard pressure of Cas inside him, never been totally owned by him. Hopefully that changes tonight. 

“I don’t know,” Dean whispers, just to give himself time to think. “Whatever you want. Everything.” Cas has laid the whole world at his fingertips and Dean is gluttonous. 

Despite the heat in his eyes, Cas’ smile is gentle. “Well, I want that as well, but it seems an awfully tall order to put into the span of a single night.” His thumb presses deliberately at the corner of Dean’s mouth. “I want to be inside you,” Cas says. Dean’s stomach soars in delight. “I want to worship you until you’re screaming. Can I?”

Sometimes, Dean forgets that Cas makes his living manipulating words for his own ends. 

This is not one of those times. 

“Fuck,” he finally says, breathy and helpless. “I mean...yeah. I’d like that. Sounds good.” 

Cas’ chuckle is muffled against Dean’s skin as he lays a series of hot, open-mouthed kisses to his throat and chest. He works his way down Dean’s chest, pausing to suck at a nipple while his hand tweaks the other. Dean’s back, quite out of his control, arches up as he gasps. 

“Cas,” he chokes out as he feels a hint of teeth against the sensitive flesh. “Come on.” 

He pushes on Cas’ shoulders as a hint. It is a hint which Cas proceeds to ignore. He sucks and nips until Dean is writhing underneath him.  _ Worship you until you’re screaming,  _ he’d said, and Dean is starting to figure out exactly what kind of torture he willingly signed on for. 

His cock strains upward, so hard that it almost hurts, and Cas still ignores it. Instead, he litters attention on Dean’s hips and inner thighs, sweeping his hands and lips over the sensitive skin. Cas creates a sweet torment which Dean never wants to end, twisting and whining behind his teeth as he works his way closer to Dean’s cock. He finally takes mercy on Dean, lavishing his cock with whisper-soft brushes and teasing little kitten licks around the head. The caresses are maddening in their inconstancy, keeping him on the edge without any hope of ever pushing him over. It’s awful and glorious and Dean never wants it to end. 

Cas abandons his cock in favor of sucking a bruise into his hip. (Dean never said  _ shit  _ to Cas, but somehow the bastard’s figured out exactly how much he likes to be held down and marked. Either he’s transparent as hell, or Cas must have some weird mind-reading power.) By the time he pulls away, Dean’s almost incoherent with need, every part of him set aflame. 

Cas peers down at him, eyes glinting smugly. He looks utterly put together and calm, while Dean… Dean feels like a sloppy mess, red-faced and panting. It’s not that he doesn’t like foreplay, he  _ loves  _ foreplay. He also loves being the person in charge of the foreplay. He’s not accustomed to being this strung out and needy from nothing more than a series of kisses. 

“Are you good?” Cas’ concerned eyes peer down at him as he cups Dean’s cheek. 

“Yeah. I’m good. Almost too good.” Overcome, Dean turns his head to nuzzle at Cas’ palm. 

“You want to keep going?” 

At the question, Dean’s eyes fly open in horror. “You’d stop?” His voice breaks pathetically on the last syllable. 

Cas frowns, but it’s his pondering frown, not his unhappy frown. “Well, yes, if you weren’t enjoying yourself.”

“That’s not in question.” Dean rolls his hips to show exactly how much he’s enjoying himself. 

Cas flashes a quick grin, and all the tension bleeds out of Dean’s body. “Well then,” he murmurs, voice as dark and sinful as thirty year old whiskey. “Roll over?” 

Dean only hesitates for a second before he shifts onto his stomach. There’s something vulnerable about the position, but he doesn’t think about that for long. He can’t, not when Cas is a heavy warm blanket that’s hard in all the right places, spread out overtop him. 

Within a few seconds, it becomes clear that Cas has every intention of continuing to torture him. Dean presses his forehead into the mattress and gasps as Cas sinks his teeth into the meat of his shoulder before working his way down his spine. Clever fingertips dance over his ribs while Cas bumps his knees apart. Dean shudders as Cas kisses at the small of his back, his fingers ghosting over his ass. 

“Can I?” Cas asks, oddly hesitant. Dean never pauses as he nods, almost frantic. “Ok. Let me know if there’s anything you don’t like, all right?” 

Before he can reply, Cas has spread him wide, fingertips digging into the meat of his ass to expose his hole. Dean squirms in discomfort at the position before Cas’ tongue licks across his entrance. Dean collapses bonelessly into the mattress, a needy cry caught in his throat as he buries his face into the blankets. Spurred on by his reactions, Cas presses a hot, open mouthed kiss to the furled muscle, and one of Dean’s knuckles finds its way into his mouth to try and muffle his moans. 

He’s never had someone offer to do this, and he’s never felt comfortable with anyone enough to ask. Lisa would slip a finger up his ass every now and again, but always with a little reluctance. It was clear to Dean that she was doing it because she felt obliged to and not out of any real desire. Asking her to do  _ this _ would have been unthinkable. He’d always thought there was something vaguely dirty about it, always been ashamed to admit his interest. 

But that was before he met Cas, who takes to rimming him like it’s his fucking job. Dean’s getting beard rash on his ass and he can’t complain, not when Cas’ tongue flicks over his hole, tight and purposeful. Cas pushes closer, his fingers digging into Dean’s ass as he holds him open. The tip of his tongue just barely breaches his hole, and Cas moans, like this is the best fucking use he could think of for his tongue. 

After hours pass, or minutes, Dean’s not quite sure anymore, he pulls his knuckle out of his mouth. “Cas, come on. You need to...I want you,” he says, like that’s any explanation. 

Maybe it is. Cas pulls away, albeit reluctantly, but not before slipping his thumb in Dean’s spit-slick loosened hole. “One day, he says, and Dean shudders to hear Cas’ voice so low and hungry, “I’m going to eat you out and make you come on my tongue.” Dean whines, high and surprised, as Cas’ hand wraps around his leaking cock, pumping him slowly. His hips stutter, caught between wanting to thrust into Cas’ hand and roll back into the thumb stretching him open. 

“But for now, I suppose I’ll have to settle for fucking you into the mattress.” Dean smothers his protest as Cas pulls away, leaving him cold and bereft. It’s only for a short moment as Cas rummages around in his bedside drawer. Eventually he comes up with a bottle of lube and a condom, both of which he tosses on the bed. 

“Once this all dies down, we’ll go get tested, all right?” Dean shudders at the click of the lube and the cool touch of Cas’ finger around his hole. “I can’t imagine what it would feel like to feel you bare inside me...to be bare inside of you. But for now, we’ll play it safe.” 

“Since when are you so good at dirty talk?” Dean groans. They’re rushing through prep probably faster than they should, but he doesn’t mind. He likes a little bit of the burn, his hips rolling back to take first one, then two fingers. 

“Since I’ve been living with you for two years.” Cas adds a third finger and Dean moans at the stretch. “I’ve had a lot of time to think of different scenarios. It’s led to some fairly inspired fantasies.” 

“I’ll fucking say.” Dean saws in a ragged breath as Cas withdraws. Cas’ clean hand is soft against his hip, drawing tiny circles into his flesh. 

“Can you turn over?” Cas’ voice doesn’t betray any nervousness, but Dean notices how his fingers stop drawing idle designs on his skin. “I want to see you.” 

Dean forces his clunky limbs to move as he flops from his stomach onto his back. He feels ungainly and awkward, but the look on Cas’ face screams reverence. He lifts his hips for the pillow Cas shoves underneath him, never once taking his eyes off of Cas’ face. His boyfriend (how awesome is it that he’s finally allowed to say that word?) looks awed. He touches Dean haltingly, like he has to convince himself that he’s allowed these touches. 

Dean opens his mouth. He means to say something snarky about Cas, like how, although he tries to put up a tough front, he’s a big sap on the inside, but that’s not what comes out of his mouth. “Hey you,” he whispers. Those two words encompass all the affection he feels in his heart. 

“Hey,” Cas whispers back. He never breaks eye contact as he reaches for the condom and lube, while Dean’s eyes are drawn to the play of Cas’ long fingers as he rips open the condom and rolls it down over his cock. At the touch of his hand, Cas’ eyes flutter shut and his mouth opens to offer up a punched out moan, like even the barest touch might be too much. 

Cas crawls between Dean’s legs and hoists one of Dean’s knees into the crook of his elbow. Dean hooks his other leg around Cas’ waist. His heel knocks impatiently against Cas’ ass when it becomes clear that Cas is going to take his sweet time.

“Fucking do it already,” Dean murmurs, when it looks like Cas isn’t going to take the initiative. “I wanna feel you.” 

“Don’t rush me,” Cas chides, even as he consents to be rushed. Dean’s mouth opens in a soundless gasp as blunt pressure pushes against the tight ring of muscle. For a moment he has the wild thought that this isn’t going to work, but then he exhales and relaxes, and the head of Cas’ cock eases inside him. 

Cas is inside him. Easy as that. 

“Hey baby,” Dean grins. There’s the inevitable stretch and burn of entrance, and he can already feel the muscles in his inner thighs pulling, but those minor discomforts pale in comparison to the look on Cas’ face as he pushes forward. His face is slack in wonder, like someone finally finding their life’s purpose (it’s probably a little egotistical of Dean to think that, but what the hell, he’s waited long enough for it). 

Small, helpless noises spill forward from Cas’ open mouth. Caught up in lust, and the joy of having Cas inside him, Dean only realizes at the end that all those noises are variations of his name. By the time Cas bottoms out, they’re both trembling. Cas lowers his forehead to press against Dean’s as his fingers card through Dean’s sweat-damp hair. 

“Fuck,” Cas finally chokes out. He props himself up on his elbows, one on either side of Dean’s head. The kiss he presses to Dean’s lips is almost frantic, burning with passion barely contained within Cas’ shaking limbs. 

“Yeah, same,” is all Dean can come up with. 

“You feel--” Cas buries his face in Dean’s chest as his hips grind thoughtlessly forward “--oh  _ god,  _ Dean, you feel so good--” 

“Yeah same, fucking same, please move.” Dean lifts a shaky hand to push Cas’ hair off his forehead. “Need you so bad, Cas.” 

“I’ll make it good for you, I promise.” Cas’ hips move in uneven thrusts before he sets a punishing rhythm, cock gliding in and out Dean. “Fuck, Dean, god, so fucking  _ tight--” _ Cas grits his teeth as his hips slam forward. Each thrust lights Dean up from the inside out, sending little sparks of ecstasy through his blood. Every part of him screams  _ Cas Cas Cas,  _ until he’s drunk with it. 

“I wanted you for so long,” Dean confesses. He wraps his arms around Cas’ shoulders, pulling him closer. From here, Cas can’t thrust, so he grinds his hips forward in short movements, sending frissions of pleasure racing through him. He tilts his head towards the sky, allowing Cas to nip at the vulnerable expanse of his throat. “I would lie here at night and touch myself and imagine it was you.” Cas whimpers. It sounds encouraging, so Dean continues. “I would think about how you’d look with your lips wrapped around me… I’d think about you opening me up. I’d imagine how you’d feel when you were fucking me--oh  _ fuck,  _ oh  _ god,  _ Cas!” 

Cas groans as he hoists Dean’s leg higher up. The change in position causes Cas’ dick to shift within him and Dean cries out, muscles tensing in almost unbearable pleasure. Every time Cas thrusts forward, he rubs against Dean’s prostate. After only a few minutes of this treatment Dean is strung tight, muscles clenching in a need for release. 

“Touch me, come on Cas, touch my cock,” Dean pleads. He twists his fingers in Cas’ hair, shaking with need. “Come on, make me come.” 

“I said that you would be screaming when you did.” Cas grits the sentence out between his clenched teeth, but his hand wiggles between their bodies to wrap around Dean’s cock. 

“You keep on and I’ll be screaming.” It’s not an over exaggeration. With the almost constant assault on his prostate and Cas’ fingers coaxing at the sensitive head of his cock, he’s falling apart. 

“You’re so wonderful,” Cas says, fervent, like he’s never wanted anything more from life than to watch Dean fall apart on his cock. “So beautiful, god, I could watch you like this all damn day.” 

“Cas, please.” Later, Dean might feel ashamed of the desperate little whimpers burbling from him, but not now when he’s poised on the knife’s edge of release. “Need to… need you…” 

“I’ve got you,” Cas promises, dipping down to kiss him. “You’re all right Dean, I’ve got you.” 

Dean didn’t realize that he was waiting for Cas’ reassurance, but apparently that’s what he needed. Spurred on by Cas’ soft whispers, Dean’s back arches. A sound which could be described as a scream erupts from his mouth as he comes in messy ropes of his stomach and Cas’ hand. 

The world whites out as Dean gasps and writhes. He’s not sure how long Cas keeps him caught in the throes, but he eventually comes back to himself, batting Cas’ hand away from his oversensitive cock. Cas makes a small noise of discontent, but satisfies himself with a long, heated kiss. Dean hums into the contact, relaxing back into the mattress as his limbs are overtaken with post-orgasmic heaviness. 

“Your turn,” he whispers, once they part. “What do you want? You want to come in me? You want me to jerk you?” 

Cas looks down at him, his breath sawing unevenly in his chest. “Can I… Can I come on you?” 

Dean laughs, tugging playfully at a lock of Cas’ hair. “Kinky bastard.” He clenches and smiles at Cas’ resulting moan. “Whatever you want, baby.” 

With slow careful motions, Cas pulls out. Dean still whimpers at the loss, hole clenching around nothing, but he tempers the loss with the sight of Cas. He watches with hungry eyes as Cas disposes of the condom then crawls his way up straddle Dean’s hips. “Fuck, that’s it.” Dean licks his lips, mesmerized by the sight of the slick, flushed head of Cas’ cock appearing and disappearing through Cas’ fist. “Look at you big boy.” 

While he would love to feel Cas marking him from the inside out, Dean can’t deny the attraction of seeing Cas like this. He doesn’t know where to look at first: the flex of Cas’ bicep as he furiously jacks his cock, the clench of his stomach as he thrusts into the tunnel of his own fingers, the shift of his thighs, or the tantalizing curve of his throat as his head lolls backward. Cas whines, lips drawing back from his teeth, and Dean can tell he’s close. 

“Give it to me, Cas,” he demands, propping himself up on his elbow. He runs his hands up Cas’ thigh to tug lightly at his balls, and that’s the tipping point. Cas’ eyes snap open as he cries out and comes over Dean’s chest. He doesn’t stop fucking his fist until he’s shaking with overstimulation, small choked whimpers spilling from his lips. 

Dean opens his arms and, heedless of the mess between them, Cas slumps forward. Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ shoulders, whispering praise and sweet nothings as Cas tucks his face into the crook of Dean’s shoulder. Dean thinks that Cas might be murmuring the same into the sweaty skin of his neck. 

Holding Cas, Dean’s overwhelmed with the feeling of  _ warmth.  _ It spreads through his body out to his fingertips and he clutches Cas tighter to hold onto it. 

“I didn’t want to say anything, because it feels pretty cheap to say it now, but you know that I… That, you know.” Dean’s fingers trace over Cas’ back, chasing the shivers dancing across his skin. “God, Cas,” he whispers. “How’d I manage for this long without you?” 

Cas’ shrug is more of an attempt than an actual movement. “Sheer luck? Maybe raw enthusiasm?” His voice is hoarse. Exhaustion dogs its edges. 

“Come on, huggybear. We need to get into the shower before you pass out.” Cas is mostly dead weight, but Dean manages to slip out from underneath him. Cas snarls unhappily as he lands in the not inconsiderable wet spot, yet makes no attempt to move, at least not until Dean slaps at his ass. “I mean it. Into the shower. You go to sleep like that and you’re going to wake up disgusting and grumpy. Well, grumpier than usual.”

To prove his point, a low rumble sounds from Cas’ chest. Dean waits patiently as Cas rolls himself out of bed with slow, stilted movements. He’d never guess that barely fifteen minutes ago, Cas had one hell of an orgasm. At least, he hopes. 

He holds the question in until they’re both situated under the spray of his shower. It’s a tight fit for two full grown men, but they make it work. “So was it… I mean, that was good right?”

Cas cracks open an eye as he ducks his head under the spray. “Are you fishing for compliments?” 

Dean shuffles. When Cas says it, it sounds so ridiculous. “I mean, a little I guess? It’s been a while, so maybe you should grade on a curve.” 

Cas takes a tiny step forward into Dean’s arms. “First, I find it a little ludicrous that you need to ask. In case you hadn’t noticed, I found myself very satisfied.” He tips his head up to kiss at Dean’s chin. “Secondly, the physical aspects of a relationship are… I would be satisfied with anything or with nothing, as long as you were there.” 

“You’re such a fucking sap,” Dean accuses, but that doesn’t stop him from squeezing Cas so tightly he squeaks. 

“Look who’s talking,” Cas grumbles, even as his arms wrap around Dean’s waist. 

The water pounds at their bodies. Soon, it will shift from hot to tepid and then to cold, but Dean can’t drag himself out of this moment. His life has become a series of moments from which he never wants to emerge. Part of him is terrified of when it will end. The other, larger part of him wants to see for how long he can stretch this particular run of good luck. 

Dean doesn’t know why they call it falling in love. He’s never been closer to flying. 

  
  


*~*~*~*~*~*


	12. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All I can do is appreciate those common, everyday things, like the comfort of curling up to his warm body at night and waking up next to him in the morning. Tomorrow’s one of his stay at home days, which means he gets to sleep in (it also means I can probably con him into making waffles). These are just tiny, normal things, but they’re things we cling to._
> 
> _So let the future come. For now, I’m going to go help Roommate make dinner and concentrate on everything I have._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all those of you who have been with me since the beginning, thank you. 
> 
> For all those of you who are suffering or who have loved ones suffering--all my love goes out to you. 
> 
> Time to bring her home.

*~*~*~*~*~*

  
  


**day ???**

  
  


Castiel is halfway through his next article when the front door opens. 

His popularity, such as it can be for a freelance article writer, is at a peak. His article about Jess caught the right kind of attention, and editors requested a third, and then a fourth part. Luckily, Jess was a willing participant as she narrated the struggles of finally reaching a plateau and then, almost miraculously, a decline of cases. 

Life is returning, albeit haltingly and reluctantly, to normal. And his life…

“Hey, baby.” Dean shoulders open the office door. He walks over and plants a kiss to the top of Castiel’s head as his hands rest on his shoulders. Dean’s thumbs massage idly at his shoulders, though he presses harder once he ascertains Castiel’s interest. A low noise of happiness rumbles out of Castiel’s chest and he leans forward, allowing Dean more space to work. 

Dean’s thumbs are instruments of magic, sending bliss and relaxation through his muscles. Castiel manages to surface from underneath the waves long enough to ask, “How was work?” 

There’s a shrug in Dean’s voice when he answers. “Fine. Boring. It’s weird when there’s only half the people there.” 

Dean’s office tentatively reopened a week ago with the employees alternating their days inside the office. Castiel worries about Dean, but Dean assures him that every precaution is being taken and that most of his work is done individually at his desk. Dean can repeat himself until he’s blue in the face, but it won’t ever stop Castiel from worrying about him. 

Dean’s thumbs dig into his shoulders hard enough to startle a moan out of Castiel. “How about you, big shot? How’s your day going?” 

“Can’t complain.” Castiel’s head lolls forward against the edge of his desk. “Please, keep doing that.” 

“You’re too tense. You said that you were going to start running more.” 

“I have been. I’m just trying to get this article finished.” 

“Ah, the pitfalls of fame. I never knew it was going to be such a trial to be dating a bigshot writer.” 

“Yes, with the full twenty people in the world who know me from my writing, how do you ever get anything done?” 

“Just wait until you go big and hit Hollywood. Then you’ll have to go to premieres and events and I’ll be relegated to the position of arm-candy. Maybe trophy husband if I get lucky enough.” 

Castiel tries not to tense at the mention of the word  _ husband.  _ Lately, Dean’s been dropping that word in conversations too often to really be called a coincidence. He doesn’t know if it’s due to genuine slips of the tongue or if Dean is trying to inch his way around a topic that’s too enormous and huge to come at straight on. 

For the moment, Castiel decides to ignore it. If Dean wants anything from him, he’ll tell him. He trusts Dean to do that. “Ah, a fate worse than death, to be admired.” He reaches blindly behind him. His fingers wrap around Dean’s wrist and pull it in front of him. He doesn’t let go until he’s pressed a gentle kiss to the delicate skin covering Dean’s veins. 

“I need to finish what I’m working on, but it shouldn’t take long. Maybe about thirty minutes? Then I can help you make dinner?” 

“Sounds good. Anything in mind?” 

“I defer to your expertise. I’ll like whatever you pick.” 

Dean huffs in laughter. “We both know that’s not true.” 

(He’s not lying; several of Dean’s experiments have been not to Castiel’s taste. Several of Dean’s experiments have been outright terrifying.)

“And yet I still trust you. That must tell you something.” 

Dean’s hands slide from his shoulders to cup his jaw. Gentle pressure urges his head to tilt backward until he’s looking at Dean. Upside-down, right side up, sideways--it’s a lovely sight, no matter the angle. His eyes flutter shut as Dean kisses him, gently. Lovingly. 

“I’ll get started on supper,” Dean says, pecking at Cas’ lips once more before he walks out of the office. 

The word processor on his laptop is a paltry amusement compared to Dean, but Castiel forces his attention back to the half-finished paragraph on the page. 

It’s not just his articles which have been garnering attention. Much to his surprise, Emmanuel’s readers are a loyal lot. They haven’t abandoned him just because he got his happy ending. If anything, they’ve become more demanding. 

(There had been several instances of comments which had ventured beyond the usual  _ omg this is so cute u and ur roommate are relationship goals please update soon!!!!!  _ and descended into truly distressing territory. He balked at showing those messages to Dean, but he’d been unable to hide them when, one night, Dean looked at him point blank and asked what was wrong. He’d been scared at how still Dean’s face had gone and the line white lines which had bracketed his mouth, and then taken aback at how quickly Dean moved. “Charlie,” he snarled into the phone, not bothering with any kind of small talk, “Cas and I need your help.” Charlie had done whatever kind of magic she did with binary code and his blog has been thankfully free of those types of comments since.) 

It turns out that the majority of his readers are more than content with reading the mundane details of his domestic bliss. Their interest might have something to do with the pictures that Charlie finally talked him into putting on the page. While Castiel was hesitant at putting any identifying evidence on his blog, Charlie assured him that her security filters were more than adequate. And the response of his readers to his pictures has been...enthusiastic to say the least. 

(He’d thought that Dean would turn him down flat when he asked, but, like always, Dean managed to surprise him. He embraced the idea of taking a ‘cute selfie’ with the same passion and intensity which others approached the invasion of Normandy. Castiel hadn’t been aware there were that many filters available, or that Dean was an expert in apparently all of them. He did have to admit, however, that the resulting picture was frame-worthy. It’s ended up as his lock screen and he finds himself looking at it throughout the day. As selfies go, the pose is fairly standard: his and Dean’s heads incline towards each other and their cheeks press together. It’s the small details Castiel finds himself enamored of: the crinkles at the corners of Dean’s eyes, the splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the vibrant green of Dean’s eyes.

No wonder he’d gotten at least a hundred new subscribers after posting that picture. Hell, if he didn’t have the real thing in his bed every night, he would have subscribed.)

His fingers fly over the keyboard as he finishes his work. He’ll edit tomorrow before posting; for now it’s enough for the paragraphs to exist. 

_ I stopped paying attention to the news a long time ago, so I’m not actually sure whether it’s safe to return to the real world. I do know that I, unlike most of the world, have no real desire to leave my boudoir of sin and opulence (most people call it an apartment, but those people are also boring). I’m perfectly happy in my ivory tower.  _

_ I hear the neighbors leaving for work each morning. Every other morning, Roommate joins them, an action to which I am firmly opposed. I’m generally against anything which removes him from my bed, but I also worry about him. I know it’s not going to be long before he goes on site visits. It’s another risk, in a life which has become riskier than anyone ever bargained for.  _

_ I don’t know what’s going to happen next week, let alone any time in the future. I try to keep my reality confined to the immediate present. For instance, I know Roommate is in the kitchen, picking out what we’re going to have for dinner. I know he’s waiting for me to join him. I know that after we have dinner we’re going to start making our way through Westworld (I’m not fully convinced of the show’s worth, but I find it’s best to indulge Roommate’s cowboy fetish whenever possible). And after we make it through a few episodes--well, that’s none of your business.  _

_ All I can do is appreciate those common, everyday things, like the comfort of curling up to his warm body at night and waking up next to him in the morning. Tomorrow’s one of his stay at home days, which means he gets to sleep in (it also means I can probably con him into making waffles). These are just tiny, normal things, but they’re things we cling to.  _

_ So let the future come. For now, I’m going to go help Roommate make dinner and concentrate on everything I have.  _

_ Take care of yourselves.  _

Castiel reads over the paragraphs. While he recoils from leaving work undone, there are other, better uses of his time. 

He closes his laptop and goes to join Dean in the kitchen. 

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

  
  


**day ????**

  
  
  


Dean loves his work from home days. Work from home days mean a later start in general, which means he can stay in bed with Cas until either guilt or his bladder force him out. It also means he can spend a leisurely breakfast with Cas before they break for their separate work. 

(It also means that if they’re quick about it, he and Cas can indulge in some athletic morning sex. Working from home is  _ great  _ sometimes.)

It’s approaching late afternoon, which makes it almost quitting time. Just for old time’s sake, Dean considers visiting Cas’ office. Cas still keeps a puzzle or two around for their various amusements. They’ve whiled away dozens of afternoons with their heads bent low over a picture, bickering about how best to solve it (Dean favors creating the border first and then filling in towards the center, while Cas focuses on a single facet and works outward. Cas is  _ wrong,  _ and Dean has told him so several times, but Cas is also  _ stubborn _ and doesn't listen to him.)

He’d been afraid that the spark would fade between them. He’d been afraid that whatever magic or coincidence had brought them together during quarantine would disappear once the real world started to filter into their lives once more. So far, those fears have come to naught. 

He’s still just as enamored of Cas as the day he first saw him. More so, now that he knows the truth of the fire and passion hidden underneath his cool exterior. Dean could listen to Cas talk for hours, and he has, as Cas’ low voice described ideas that Dean’s lovestruck brain could only halfway comprehend. No matter if he’s just seen Cas ten minutes ago, whenever he catches a glimpse of him, he’s hit by the  _ wanting, _ sure and swift as an arrow to the gut. 

Which is not to say that he and Cas lead a blessed existence, free from strife. Dean’s temper still makes itself known in the worst possible ways, in fits of black silence and snappishness. While he hides his better, Cas has a temper too, which sparks against Dean’s in petulant fits and snide remarks. Together, they can boil over into an inferno. 

Dean remembers the first time he heard Cas truly raise his voice. He doesn’t remember the argument, but he remembers being frozen in shock as Cas’ voice sliced through the apartment and echoed off the walls. A sepulchral silence had hung over the furniture as they stared at each other before Cas, with a disgusted noise, stormed off to the comfort of his own room. He hadn’t slammed the door, but he might as well have, for all that the sound echoed around the space. And Dean, left shaking from the encounter, had silently put away their dishes and cleaned up the living room, until it was almost impossible to tell that up until an hour ago, two people had shared the space quite comfortably. He turned out all the lights and spent long minutes shuffling in indecision in front of Cas’ door before he finally turned back to his room. His bed had never seemed so cold, or so empty, as it had that night. 

But Dean also remembers how he woke up a few hours later, in the dark, small hours of the morning, to a gentle hand spanning the width of his shoulders. He was too sleep-deprived and too grateful to be ashamed of the soft, needy noise which escaped as he scooted backwards into Cas’ warmth. One of Cas’ arms immediately slid over his waist, his palm resting possessively over the slowing beat of his heart. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispered, cursing the sharp sting behind his eyes. He turned his face into the pillow so Cas wouldn’t see. “I’m sorry.” 

Cas kissed at the nape of his neck. “No, I’m sorry. I’m still angry,” his arm tightened around Dean’s waist at the automatic flinch which shook through his body, “but I shouldn’t have stormed off like that.”

“I thought you weren’t coming back.” The second the words were out of his mouth, Dean regretted them, but he also couldn’t retract them. All that remained was to wait for Cas to ridicule him, for Cas to draw away in horror, for Cas to finally come to his senses and say  _ well, this has been fun, but I really think that there’s someplace else that I need to be, I guess I’ll leave my keys on the table and we’ll keep in touch, right?  _

“Oh, sweetheart. Baby, no.” Cas’ hands were gentle, but insistent, points of pressure that rolled Dean over on his back. Half-fearing what he would see, Dean looked over to find Cas’ silhouette. 

“I just mean, I would understand. I know that I’m a bastard and a son of a bitch, and that’s difficult for a lot of people--” 

“It might be for them. I’m not them.” Steel crept into Cas’ tone, forcing Dean to pay attention. “We’re two people who have different opinions on a lot of things. We’re going to fight; it’s inevitable. But I promise you, I’m in this for the long haul. I’ve known you for two years now and nothing you’ve said or done is enough to make me want to leave.” 

“Yeah?” Dean hardly dared to breathe. 

“I’m not suggesting that you test that theory, but yes. You know I love you. This isn’t just a phase for me. You’re not just a phase. I’m not going to cut and run the second that something becomes hard.” 

The words settled something in Dean that he hadn’t realized was afraid. “I love you too, you know? Even if you are an asshole sometimes.” 

A warning growl rumbled in Cas’ chest, but it was soothed when Dean rolled into him. He pushed his face against the soft fabric of Cas’ t-shirt and breathed in the clean, laundry scent. “Can you be angry at me in the morning? Can we just sleep now?” 

Cas’ arms were warm and strong as they held Dean close to him. Dean fell asleep that way, embraced by the person he loved. (In the morning, Cas was next to him, sleeping so soundly that Dean had a chance to slip out of bed and make him a cup of coffee. When Cas woke up to find a steaming mug of coffee, made exactly the way he liked it, by his bedside, he’d seemed to forget all about being angry with Dean.)

Dean’s phone buzzes next to him. He looks at it, his interest perking when he sees a text from Benny on the screen. 

**_live show tonight in gilmore park_ **

**_charlie and gilda already going_ **

**_you want to bring cas out tonight for a date?_ **

Before Dean has a chance to reply, Cas walks out into the kitchen. He’s dressed in his usual work uniform: a faded band t-shirt (Dean has a sneaking suspicion Cas has been raiding his drawers once again) and a pair of jeans worn soft to the touch. His hair is such a mess that Dean strongly suspects he hasn’t combed it today. 

He’s the most wonderful thing Dean’s ever seen. 

Cas picks up the threads of a conversation Dean was unaware they were having. “So I had this idea that I was going to cook dinner for you, but then I decided we should order a pizza and have a movie night instead. I still haven’t seen Aquaman.” 

Dean weighs his options. The idea of a live show in the park is an intriguing one. Cas and him, spread out on a blanket, listening to the music, possibly sharing a piece of pie (that last part might be a stretch, but it’s his fantasy and a guy can dream). The music and stars overhead, combined with the sensuousness of a warm summer’s night, would be peak romance. 

Then Dean thinks about the alternative. He and Cas always bicker over what to put on the pizza (he’s of the opinion that you can’t have too much meat on a pizza, while Cas, the savage, insists on putting things like peppers, onions, and god forbid, even pineapple on it). There’s the playful and not so playful wrestling for the last piece of pizza. Cas doesn’t seem capable of watching a movie without adding some form of color commentary to the proceedings, even if it’s just a comment on the sloppiness of a metaphor. 

But there’s also the part of the night where they settle together on the couch, bodies bending towards each other as though they were drawn by magnets, like nothing in the world could keep them apart. There’s the moment when Cas’ head rests on his shoulder. Dean never understood the trust and vulnerability in the gesture until he experienced it for himself: all of Cas’ brains and personality, everything that made Cas _Cas_ was left vulnerable on his lap. 

Then there’s  _ after _ to think of, the part of the night where Cas gets a little gleam in his eyes. It might come halfway through the movie, it might come when they’re bumping hips over the sink as they brush their teeth, or as Dean leans over him to turn out the light. No matter when it occurs, that gleam promises devilish things, pastimes that will leave Dean gasping and sated. 

Cas’ smile spreads across his face, sweet and simple. At the sight, Dean’s heart thumps obediently in his chest, secure in the knowledge that he’d follow that smile, follow  _ Cas _ anywhere. 

“What do you say?” Cas asks, tilting his head. “I promise I’ll let you put whatever gross toppings on the pizza that you want.” 

A gleam shines in the depths of Cas’ eyes. 

Dean grabs his phone and swipes out a message to Benny. He doesn’t wait for a reply before he sets his phone on the table. A quick flick of his fingers turns his computer off. He leaves work behind him as he joins Cas in the kitchen. 

Cas’ peal of laughter as Dean sneaks behind him and wraps his arms around his waist echoes through the kitchen. He’s a solid guy, Cas, but Dean manages to hoist him into the air, enough to make Cas yelp with frantic, delighted mirth. When his feet hit the ground again, Cas wastes no time in turning around, his arms wrapping around Dean’s shoulders. 

“Hey,” he whispers, bumping his nose against Dean’s. 

“Hi,” Dean whispers back. He and Cas lean into each other, lips meeting sweetly, and Dean gets the same gut-punch of recognition that he always gets whenever he talks to Cas, whenever he kisses him. 

_ Hello. It’s you. I found you.  _

\---

**_yeah it’s a no-go on that show. think cas and i are just going to stay in tonight_ **

  
  


~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this fic the day that I was told to work from home. It seems fitting that I'm finishing it when most of the stay at home orders are being lifted. While none of us are out of the woods yet, it seems hopeful. 
> 
> If you're struggling and want someone to yell at, or if you just want to yell, you can always find me on tumblr [here](https://dothwrites.tumblr.com/). I'm usually funny. 
> 
> Join the hunt soon, with bounty hunter Cas on the trail of hunter Dean, in a wacky fic tentatively titled _angel all in black_. (You can also subscribe if you want to get updates.)
> 
> Thanks to all. Reading your comments has been one of the great joys of these past weeks. Much love. 
> 
> <3 doth


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